lia 


u 


LIBRARY 

LJNiV^R-JlTY  OF 

"NIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


5 


JA.OUKT  1,  1646. 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 
WILLIAM  D.  TICKNOR  &  COMPANY, 

Vgzsjtnston  X  School  Starts,  ^ ^, 

BOSTON. 


POETRY. 


BARRY  CORNWALL.    ENGLISH  SOSGS  and  other 

SMAU.  rouu.    la  one  rolume,  16mo,  price  75  cents. 


ALFRED  TENNYSON.    POEMS.    In  two  volumes, 

Itao,  price  $L50L 

nu 

WDLLLA3I  MOTHERWELL.  POEMS  KAHKATIVB  and 

LTUCJU.    la  ooe  ralone,  16«^  price  56  ee»U. 


LEIGH  HUNT.    STORY  OP  RIMLNI,  and  other  POEMS. 

In  one  rolnme,  16am,  price  50  cenu. 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  ^^LNES.    POEMS  OF  MAJTT 

In  ooerolvM,  16aio,  price  75  eetfs. 


JOHN  KEATS.    POETICAL  WOMCS,  with  a  LIFE  of 

theAonioB.    By  R.  M.  lliuixs.    One  Tolome,  16no. 

m. 

MINSTRELSY :  ANCIENT  ASD  MODERN.    With 

mn  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION  ASO  NOTES.    By  WOUAJ* 
MOTBXKWKIA.    In  two 


A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  RECENTLY  PUBLISHED 


REJECTED  ADDRESSES.    From  the  19th  LONDON 

EDITION.  Carefully  Revised.  With  an  ORIGINAL  PREFACE 
AND  NOTES.  l!y  HORACE  AMD  JAMES  SMITH.  In  one  volume, 
16mo,  price  50  cenls. 


SONGS   OF   OUR  LAND,   and   other  POEMS.     By 

MART  E.  HEWITT.    One  volume,  12mo,  piice  75  cents. 


LAYS  OF  MY  HOME,  and  other  POEMS.     By  JOHN 

G.  \VHITTIKK.     One  volume,  Itimo,  piice  50  cents. 


THE  AGE  OF  GOLD,  and  other  POEMS.    By  GEORGE 

LUNT.    In  one  volume,  J6mo,  i>rice  50  cents. 


MATINS  AND  VESPERS  :  with  HYMNS  AND  OC- 
CASIONAL DEVOTIONAL  PIECES.  By  JOHN  BOWRING.  In 
one  volume,  3Jmo,  cloth,  gilt  edges,  price  U7  cents. 


POEMS  BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES.    Lon- 
don edition.    ]6mo,  price  $1.00. 


r/ZiSCELLANSOUS. 


CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN  :  MORAL,  POET- 
ICAL and  HISTORICAL.  By  MRS.  JAMESON.  New  Edition.  Corrected 
and  Enlarged.  In  one  volume,  Hmo,  price  $1.00. 


THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN  ;  considered  in  re- 

ktioii  to  External  Ohjncts.  Ity  GEORGE  COMRE.  With  nn  additional 
chapter  on  the  HARMONY  UJSTWEEN  PHKHVOLOGY  AND 
REVELATION.  By  J.  A.  W.-  UNE,  A.  M.  21st  AMER^AN  EDITION. 
One  volume,  lOmo,  price  83  cents. 


BT  WILLIAM  D,  TICKS  OR  &.  COMPANY. 


VOCAL  CULTURE  LN  ELOCUTION.     A  Manual 

of  Elementary  Eierci*es,  adapted  to  1)«.  RUSH'S  "PHILOSOPHY" 
.  OF  THE  HtMAX  VOICE;"  and  designed  as  an  IXTRODIC- 
TIOX  to  RUSSELL'S  "AMERICAN"  ELOCUTIONIST;"  tc.  By 
JAMES  E.  MCKDOCH,  Instracter  in  Orthophooy  and  Vocal  Giinnas- 
ties;  and  WILLIAM  RUSSELL,  Author  of  "  Lessons  in  Elocution," 
Ac.  With  an  APPENDIX  containing  DIRECTIONS  for  the  CL'L^ 
T1VATIO.N  of  PURE  TONE,  by  G  J.  WEBB,  Professor,  Boston 
Academy  of  Music.  In  one  rolome,  12mo,  price  $1.00. 


CONFESSIONS  OF  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM-EATER. 

Being  an  EXTRACT  from  the  LIFE  of  a  SCHOLAR.    From  the 
last  Loxoox  EDITION.    In  one  Tohune,  lomo.  price  50  cents. 


ELEMENTARY  TREATISE  DN  MINERALOGY. 

Comprising  an  INTRi  >DiXTIOX  to  the  S<  IEXCE  By  WILLIAM 
PHILLIPS  5ih  EDITION,  from  the  4th  LO*DO*  EPITIOH.  By  ROB- 
XRT  ALLAH.  Containing  the  LATENT  DISC 'OVER  IBS  in  AMER- 
ICAN and  FOREIGN  MIXERALOGV.  With  numerous  Additions 
to  the  Intiodnciion.  By  FRAXCIS  ALGER.  With  numerous  Engrav- 
ing, One  volume,  octavo,  price  $3.00. 


THE  USE  OF  THE  BLO^TIPE  IN  CHEMISTRY 

AND  MINERALOGY.  By  J.  J.  BKHKLIUS.  Translated  from  the 
4th  E*LA*GED  and  Coaaxcrco  EDITION  by  J.  D.  WHITXXT.  With 
Plate*,  la  one  Tolome.  12mo,  price  $1.25. 


A  BRIEF  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  MORTARS 

in  BITILDLNG.  With  an  Account  of  the  Processes  employed  on  the 
Public  Works  in  Boston  Harbor.  By  LIICT.  WILLIAM  H."  WRIGHT, 
C.  S.  Corps  of  Engineers.  Witt  Plates.  In  one  volume,  12mo,  price 
$LOO. 

mi. 

A  PRACTICAL  TREATISE  ON  THE  CULTIVA- 

TION  OF  THE  GRAPE  VIXE  ON  OPEN  WALLS.  To  which 
is  added  a  Descriptive  Account  of  an  Improved  Method  of  PLA*TI*G 
and  MiKiGinc  the  ROOTS  of  GRATE  VISES.  With  Plates.  In  oue 
Toiuine,  lAno,  price  &  cents. 


HINTS  ON  ETIQUETTE  AND  THE  USAGES  OF 

SOCIETY  :  with  a  GLA.N'CE  AT  BAD  HABITS.  By  C.  W.  DAT. 
Adapted  to  American  Society,  by  the  same  Author.  In  one  volume, 
IfiM,  pric.  50  cent*. 


LIST  OF  BOOKS. 


MENTAL  CULTURE  ;  OR  THE  MEANS  OF  DE- 
VELOPING THE  HUMAN  FACULTIES.  By  J.  L.  LEVUON. 
In  one  volume,  12uio,  price  25  cents.  < 


PEN  AND  INK  SKETCHES.     By  a  COSMOPOLITAN. 

To  which  is  added   CHATTERTON  ;   a   ROMANCE   OF   LITERART 
LIFE.     In  one  volume,  IGmo,  price  50  cents. 


AMERICAN    FACTORIES    AND    THEIR   FEMALE 

OPERATIVES     By  REV.  WM.  SCORESBV,  D.  D..  Vicar  of  Bradford, 
Yorkshire,  England.    One  volume,  16mo,  price  25  cents. 


THE  SCENERY  SHOWER  ;  with  WORD-PAINTINGS 

of  the  BEAUTIFUL,  the  PICTURESQUE,  and  the  GRAND  in  NATURE. 
By  WARREN  BURTON.    In  one  volume,  18mo,  price  37  cents. 


FIRST   LINES    OF    PHYSIOLOGY.      By  DANIEL 

OLIVER,  M.  D.,  LL.  D.,  A.  A.  S.     NEW  EDITION.   With  Corrections 
and  Additions.  One  volume,  8vo,  price  $3.00. 


PHYSICAL  EDUCATION,  AND  THE  PRESERVA- 
TION OF  HEALTH.  SECOND  EDITION,  ENLARGED.  By  JOHN  C. 
WARREN,  M.  D.  Professor  of  Anatomy  and  Surgery  in  Harvard  Uni- 
versity. One  volume,  18mo,  price  25  cents. 


THE  NEW  TESTAMENT.     A  very  handsome  Edi- 

tion,  on  fine  paper  and  clear  type,  12mo, 

Price,  Sheep  binding,  plain,        -        -  $1.00 

Roan          "           «    -       -       -  1.50 

Calf           «           «...  1.75 

«             «        gilt  edge,          -  2.00 

Turkey  morocco,  plain,     -       -  2.50 

»        gilt  edge,        -  3.00 


» 


OUTRE-MER, 


PILGRIMAGE    BEYOND   THE    SEA 


HEXRY  WABSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


SECOND    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

WILLIAM   D.  TICKXOR  &  CO. 
1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

H.   W.    LONOPBLLOW, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE! 

STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

METCALF    AND    COMPANY, 

PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS. 


THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATOKT 7 

THE  PILGRIM  or  OCTKI-MER 9 

FRANCE. 

THE  NOKBAS  DILIGENCE  . 15 

THE  GOLDES  Lios  I»s     .....    .^  .....    23 

MAKTOT  FKAXC  A*D  THE  MOSK  or  ST.  ASTHOST  .    .    29 

THE  TILLAGE  or  ArrEcn. 50 

JACQCELISE       63 

THE  SEXAGEXARIAS 73 

PKXE  LA  CHAISE        81 

THE  VALLET  or  THE  Lotuc 95 

THE  TKOCTERES 110 

THE  BAPTISK  or  Fax 127 

CO^-A-L'ASE 138 

THE  XOTAKT  or  PfuerErx 150 

SPAIN. 

THE  JOCR.VET  IITO  SPAUT 165 

SPA15   .  .  179 


VI  CONTENTS. 

A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER 187 

ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS 201 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO 226 

THE  DEVOTIONAL  POETRY  OF  SPAIN  ........  243 

THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY  .     .    .  273 


ITALY. 

THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY 305 

ROME  IN  MIDSUMMER 319 

THE  VILLAGE  OF  LA  RICCIA     .  .  342 


NOTE-BOOK. 

NOTE-BOOK 363 

THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION 370 

COLOPHON 373 


THE 

EPISTLE  DEDICATORY. 


The  ebeer&I  breeze  sets  &ir;  we  £0  oar  sail. 
And  and  before  it.    When  the  critic  starts, 
Aixl^y  untie*  hk  bags  of  wind, 
The*  we  lay  to,  and  let  the  Mast  so  by. 

~  He 


WORTHY  AJO>  GENTLE  READER, 

I  dedicate  this  little  book  to  tfaee  with  many 
fears  and  nusgjrings  of  heart.  Being  a  ^aanyi 
to  tbee,  and  having  never  administered  to  thy 
wants  nor  to  thy  pleasures,  I  can  ass  nothing 
at  thy  hands,  saving  the  common  courtesies  of 
fife.  Perchance,  too,  what  I  hare  written  wfll 
be  little  to  thy  taste  ;  —  for  it  b  fittle  in  accord- 
ance with  die  stirring  spirit  of  the  present  age. 
If  so,  I  crave  thy  forbearance  for  having  thought 
that  even  the  busiest  mind  might  not  be  a  stranger 
to  those  moments  of  repose,  when  the  clock  of 
time  clicks  drowsfly  behind  die  door,  and  trifles 
become  the  amusement  of  die  wise  and  great. 

Besides,  what  perib  await  die  adventurous  an- 


8  THE    EPISTLE    DEDICATORY. 

thor  who  launches  forth  into  the  uncertain  current 
of  public  favor  in  so  frail  a  bark  as  this  !  The 
very  rocking  of  the  tide  may  overset  him  ;  or 
peradventure  some  freebooting  critic,  prowling 
about  the  great  ocean  of  letters,  may  descry  his 
strange  colors,  hail  him  through  a  gray  goose- 
quill,  and  perhaps  sink  him  without  more  ado. 
Indeed,  the  success  of  an  unknown  author  is  as 
uncertain  as  the  wind.  "  When  a  book  is  first 
to  appear  in  the  world,"  says  a  celebrated  French 
writer,  "  one  knows  not  whom  to  consult  to  learn 
its  destiny.  The  stars  preside  not  over  its  na- 
tivity. Their  influences  have  no  operation  on 
it ;  and  the  most  confident  astrologers  dare  not 
foretell  the  diverse  risks  of  fortune  it  must  run." 
It  is  from  such  considerations,  worthy  reader, 
that  I  would  fain  bespeak  thy  friendly  offices  at 
the  outset.  But,  in  asking  these,  I  would  not 
forestall  thy  good  opinion  too  far,  lest  in  the 
sequel  I  should  disappoint  thy  kind  wishes.  I 
ask  only  a  welcome  and  God-speed  ;  hoping,  that, 
when  thou  hast  read  these  pages,  thou  wilt  say 
to  me,  in  the  words  of  Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver, 
"  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good 
Master  Cobweb." 

Very  sincerely  thine, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE 

PILGRIM  OF  OUTRE-MER. 


I  una  Palmer,*;  re  EC, 
Wtiche  rf  » y  Ijfc  nocfae  port  have  spa 
In  manj  a  &  m  and  fere  amtrie, 
Ac  pflgriM  do  of  good  intent. 

THI  FocmPs. 


"  LTSTKKTTH,  ye  godely  gentylmen,  and  ail 
that  ben  bereyn !  "  I  am  a  pflcrim  benighted 
on  my  war,  and  crave  a  shelter  tin  the  storm  is 
over,  and  a  seat  by  the  fireside  in  this  honorable 
company.  As  a  stranger  I  ckim  this  courtesy 
at  your  bands;  and  wifl  repay  your  hospitable 
welcome  with  tales  <%tfae  countries  I  hare  passed 
through  b  my  po^rimage.* 

This  is  a  custom  of  the  olden  time.  In  die 
days  of  chivalry  and  romance,  every  baron  bold, 
perched  aloof  in  his  feudal  castle,  welcomed  the 
stranger  to  hb  balls,  and  listened  with  defiVht 
to  the  pilgrim's  tale  and  the  song  of  the  trou- 
badour. Bom  pflgrim  and  troubadour  had  their 
tales  of  wonder  from  a  distant  land,  embellished 


10  THE    PILGRIM    OF    OUTRE-MER. 

with  the  magic  of  Oriental  exaggeration.  Their 
salutation  was, 

"  Lordyng  lysnith  to  my  tale, 
That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

The  soft  luxuriance  of  the  Eastern  clime  hloomed 
in  the  song  of  the  bard;  and  the  wild  and  ro- 
mantic tales  of  regions  so  far  off  as  to  be  re- 
garded as  almost  a  fairy  land  were  well  suited 
to  the  childish  credulity  of  an  age  when  what  is 
now  called  the  Old  World  was  in  its  childhood. 
Those  times  have  passed  away.  The  world  has 
grown  wiser  and  less  credulous  ;  and  the  tales 
which  then  delighted  delight  no  longer.  But  man 
has  not  changed  his  nature.  He  still  retains  the 
same  curiosity,  the  same  love  of  novelty,  the 
same  fondness  for  romance  and  tales  by  the 
chimney-comer,  and  the  same  desire  of  wearing 
out  the  rainy  day  and  the  long  winter  evening 
with  the  illusions  of  fancy  and  the  fairy  sketches 
of  the  poet's  imagination.  It  is  as  true  now  as 
ever,  that 

"  Off  talys,  and  tryfulles,  many  man  tellys ; 
Sume  byn  trew,  and  sume  byn  ellis ; 
A  man  may  dryfe  forthe  the  day  that  long  tyme  dwellis 
Wyth  harpyng,  and  pipyng,  and  other  mery  spellis, 
Wyth  gle,  and  wyth  game." 

The  Pays  d'Outre-Mer,  or  the  Land  beyond 


THE    PILGRIM    OF    OUTRE-MER.  11 

the  Sea,  is  a  name  by  which  the  pilgrims  and 
crusaders  of  old  usually  designated  the  Holy 
Land.  I,  too,  in  a  certain  sense,  have  been  a 
pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer;  for  to  my  youthful  im- 
agination the  Old  World  was  a  kind  of  Holy 
Land,  lying  afar  off  beyond  the  blue  horizon 
of  the  ocean  ;  and  when  its  shores  first  rose  upon 
my  sight,  looming  through  the  hazy  atmosphere 
of  the  sea,  my  heart  swelled  with  the  deep  emo- 
tions of  the  pilgrim,  when  he  sees  afar  the  spire 
which  rises  above  the  shrine  of  bis  devotion. 

In  this  my  pilgrimage,  "  I  have  passed  many 
lands  and  countries,  and  searched  many  full 
strange  places."  I  have  traversed  France  from 
Normandy  to  Navarre  ;  smoked  my  pipe  in  a 
Flemish  inn  ;  floated  through  Holland  in  a  Trek- 
schuit  ;  trimmed  my  midnight  lamp  in  a  German 
university  ;  wandered  and  mused  amid  the  clas- 
sic scenes  of  Italy ;  and  listened  to  the  gay 
guitar  and  merry  castanet  on  the  borders  of  the 
blue  Guadalquivir.  The  recollection  of  many 
of  the  scenes  I  have  passed  through  is  still  fresh 
in  my  mind  ;  while  the  memory  of  others  is 
fast  fading  away,  or  is  blotted  out  for  ever.  But 
now  I  will  stay  the  too  busy  hand  of  time,  and 
call  back  the  shadowy  past.  Perchance  the  old 


12  THE    PILGRIM    OF    OUTRE-MER. 

and  the  wise  may  accuse  me  of  frivolity  ;  but  I 
see  in  this  fair  company  the  bright  eye  and  lis- 
tening ear  of  youth,  —  an  age  less  rigid  in  its 
censure  and  more  willing  to  be  pleased.  "  To 
gentlewomen  and  their  loves  is  consecrated  all 
the  wooing  language,  allusions  to  love-passions, 
and  sweet  embracements  feigned  by  the  Muse 
'mongst  hills  and  rivers  ;  whatsoever  tastes  of 
description,  battel,  story,  abstruse  antiquity,  and 
law  of  the  kingdome,  to  the  more  severe  critic. 
To  the  one  be  contenting  enjoyments  of  their 
auspicious  desires  ;  to  the  other,  a  happy  attend- 
ance of  their  chosen  Muses."  * 

And   now,   fair  dames  and  courteous  gentle- 
men, give  me  attentive  audience  :  — 

"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 
That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

*  Selden's  Prefatory  Discourse  to  the  Notes  in  Drayton's 
Poly-Olbion. 


FRANCE 


NORMAN   DILIGENCE. 


The  French  guides,  otherwise  called  the  postilians,  have 
^>ne  most  diabolicall  custome  in  their  travelling  upon  the 
waves.  Diabolicall  it  may  be  well  called ;  for,  whensoever 
their  horses  doe  a  little  anger  them,  they  will  say,  in  their 
fury,  Allans,  diable,  —  that  is,  Go,  thou  divel.  This  I  know 
by  mine  own  experience. 

CORYAT'S  CRUDITIES. 


IT  was  early  in  the  "leafy  month  of  June" 
that  I  travelled  through  the  beautiful  province 
of  Normandy.  As  France  was  the  first  foreign 
country  I  visited,  every  thing  wore  an  air  of 
freshness  and  novelty,  which  pleased  my  eye, 
and  kept  my  fancy  constantly  busy.  Life  was 
like  a  dream.  It  was  a  luxury  to  breathe  again 
the  free  air,  after  having  been  so  long  cooped 
up  at  sea  ;  and,  like  a  long-imprisoned  bird  let 
loose  from  its  cage,  I  revelled  in  the  freshness 
and  sunshine  of  the  morning  landscape. 

On  every  side,  valley  and  hill  were  covered 
yvitb.  a  carpet  of  soft  velvet  green.  The  birds 
were  singing  merrily  in  the  trees,  and  the  land- 


16  THE    NORMAN    DILIGENCE. 

scape  wore  that  look  of  gayety  so  well  described 
in  the  quaint  language  of  an  old  romance,  mak- 
ing the  "  sad,  pensive,  and  aching  heart  to  re- 
joice, and  to  throw  off  mourning  and  sadness." 
Here  and  there  a  cluster  of  chestnut-trees  shaded 
a  thatch-roofed  cottage,  and  little  patches  of 
vineyard  were  scattered  on  the  slope  of  the 
hills,  mingling  their  delicate  green  with  the  deep 
hues  of  the  early  summer  grain.  The  whole 
landscape  had  a  fresh,  breezy  look.  It  was  not 
hedged  in  from  the  highways,  but  lay  open  to 
the  eye  of  the  traveller,  and  seemed  to  welcome 
him  with  open  arms.  I  felt  less  a  stranger  in 
the  land  ;  and  as  my  eye  traced  the  dusty  road 
winding  along  through  a  rich  cultivated  country, 
skirted  on  either  side  with  blossoming  fruit-trees, 
and  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  a  little  farm- 
house resting  in  a  green  hollow  and  lapped  in 
the  bosom  of  plenty,  I  felt  that  I  was  in  a 
prosperous,  hospitable,  and  happy  land. 

I  had  taken  my  seat  on  top  of  the  diligence, 
in  order  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  country. 
It  was  one  of  those  ponderous  vehicles  which 
totter  slowly  along  the  paved  roads  of  France, 
laboring  beneath  a  mountain  of  trunks  and  bales 
of  all  descriptions  ;  and,  like  the  Trojan  horse, 


THE    ?TORMAX   DILIGENCE.  17 

bearinz  a  groaning  multitude  within  it.  It  was 
a  curious  and  cumbersome  machine,  resembling 
the  bodies  of  three  coaches  placed  upon  one  car- 
riage, with  a  cabriolet  on  top  for  outside  passen- 
gers. On  the  panels  of  each  door  were  painted 
the  fleurs-de-lis  of  France,  and  upon  the  side 
of  the  coach  emblazoned,  in  golden  characters, 
"  Exploitation  Generate  des  Jlfessagerie*  Roy- 
ale*  des  Diligences  pour  le  Havre,  Rouen,  et 
Parish 

It  would  be  useless  to  describe  the  motley 
groups  that  filled  the  four  quarters  of  this  little 
work).  There  was  the  dusty  tradesman,  with 
green  coat  and  cotton  umbrella ;  the  sallow  in- 
valid, in  skullcap  and  cloth  shoes;  the  priest 
in  his  cassock ;  the  peasant  in  his  frock  ;  and  a 
whole  family  of  squalling  children.  My  fellow- 
travellers  on  top  were  a  gay  subaltern,  with 
fierce  mustache,  and  a  nut-brown  village  beauty 
of  sweet  sixteen.  The  subaltern  wore  a  mil- 
itary undress,  and  a  little  blue  cloth  cap,  in  the 
shape  of  a  cow-bell,  trimmed  smartly  with  suVer 
lace,  and  cocked  on  one  side  of  his  bead.  The 
brunette  was  decked  out  with  a  staid  white  Nor- 
man cap,  nicely  starched  and  plaited,  and  nearly 
three  feet  high,  a  rosary  and  cross  about  her 
2 


18  THE    NORMAN    DILIGENCE. 

neck,  a  linsey-woolsey  gown,  and  wooden  shoes. 
The  personage  who  seemed  to  rule  this  little 
world  with  absolute  sway  was  a  short,  pursy  man, 
with  a  busy,  self-satisfied  air,  and  the  sonorous 
title  of  Monsieur  le  Conducteur.  As  insignia 
of  office,  he  wore  a  little  round  fur  cap  and  fur- 
trimmed  jacket ;  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  small 
leathern  portfolio,  containing  his  way-bill.  He 
sat  with  us  on  top  of  the  diligence,  and  with 
comic  gravity  issued  his  mandates  to  the  postil- 
ion below,  like  some  petty  monarch  speaking 
from  his  throne.  In  every  dingy  village  we 
thundered  through,  he  had  a  thousand  commis- 
sions to  execute  and  to  receive  ;  a  package  to 
throw  out  on  this  side,  and  another  to  take  in 
on  that ;  a  whisper  for  the  landlady  at  the  inn ; 
a  love-letter  and  a  kiss  for  her  daughter  ;  and 
a  wink  or  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for  the  chamber- 
maid at  the  window.  Then  there  were  so  many 
questions  to  be  asked  and  answered,  while  chang- 
ing horses  !  Every  body  had  a  word  to  say. 
It  was  Monsieur  le  Conducteur !  here  ;  Monsieur 
le  Conducteur  !  there.  He  was  in  complete  bus- 
tle ;  till  at  length  crying,  En  route !  he  ascended 
the  dizzy  height,  and  we  lumbered  away  in  a 
cloud  of  dust. 


THE   NORMAN    DILIGENCE.  19 

Bat  what  most  attracted  my  attention  was  the 
grotesque  appearance  of  the  postilion  and  the 
horses.  He  was  a  comical-looking  little  fellow, 
already  past  the  heyday  of  life,  with  a  thin,  sharp 
countenance,  to  which  the  smoke  of  tobacco  and 
the  fumes  of  wine  had  given  the  dusty  look  of 
parchment.  He  was  equipped  in  a  short  jacket 
of  purple  velvet,  set  off  with  a  red  collar,  and 
adorned  with  silken  cord.  Tight  breeches  of 
bright  yellow  leather  arrayed  his  pipe-stem  legs, 
which  were  swallowed  up  in  a  huge  pair  of 
wooden  boots,  iron-fastened,  and  armed  with 
long,  rattling  spurs.  Hi*  shin-collar  was  of  vast 
dimensions,  and  between  it  and  the  broad  brim 
of  his  high,  bell-crowned,  varnished  hat  project- 
ed an  eel-skin  queue,  with  a  little  tuft  of  frizzled 
hair,  like  a  powder-puff,  at  the  end,  bobbing  up 
and  down  with  the  motion  of  the  rider,  and  scat- 
tering a  white  cloud  around  him. 

The  horses  which  drew  the  diligence  were 
harnessed  to  it  with  ropes  and  leather  thongs, 
in  the  most  uncouth  manner  imaginable.  They 
were  five  in  number  ;  black,  white,  and  gray,  — 
as  various  in  size  as  in  color.  Their  tails  were 
braided  and  tied  up  with  wisps  of  straw ;  and 
when  the  postilion  mounted  and  cracked  his 


20  THE    NORMAN    DILIGENCE. 

heavy  whip,  off  they  started  ;  one  pulling  this 
way,  another  that,  —  one  on  the  gallop,  another 
trotting,  and  the  rest  dragging  along  at  a  scram- 
bling pace,  between  a  trot  and  a  walk.  No  soon- 
er did  the  vehicle  get  comfortably  in  motion,  than 
the  postilion,  throwing  the  reins  upon  his  horse's 
neck,  and  drawing  a  flint  and  steel  from  one 
pocket  and  a  short-stemmed  pipe  from  another, 
leisurely  struck  fire,  and  began  to  smoke.  Ever 
and  anon  some  part  of  the  rope-harness  would 
give  way  ;  Monsieur  le  Conducteur  from  on  high 
would  thunder  forth  an  oath  or  two ;  a  head 
would  be  popped  out  at  every  window  ;  half  a 
dozen  voices  exclaim  at  once,  "  What  's  the 
matter  ? "  and  the  postilion,  apostrophizing  the 
diable  as  usual,  would  thrust  his  long  whip  into 
the  leg  of  his  boot,  leisurely  dismount,  and,  draw- 
ing a  handful  of  packthread  from  his  pocket,  qui- 
etly set  himself  to  mend  matters  in  the  best  way 
possible. 

In  this  manner  we  toiled  slowly  along  the  dusty 
highway.  Occasionally  the  scene  was  enlivened 
by  a  group  of  peasants,  driving  before  them  a 
little  ass,  laden  with  vegetables  for  a  neighbouring 
market.  Then  we  would  pass  a  solitary  shep- 
herd, sitting  by  the  road-side,  with  a  shaggy  dog 


THE    NORMAN    DILIGENCE.  21 

at  his  feet,  guarding  his  flock,  and  making  his 
scanty  meal  on  the  contents  of  his  wallet  ;  or 
perchance  a  little  peasant-girl,  in  wooden  shoes, 
leading  a  cow  by  a  cord  attached  to  her  horns,  to 
browse  along  the  side  of  the  ditch.  Then  we 
would  all  alight  to  ascend  some  formidable  hill 
on  foot,  and  be  escorted  up  by  a  clamorous  group 
of  sturdy  mendicants,  —  annoyed  by  the  cease- 
less importunity  of  worthless  beggary,  or  moved 
to  pity  by  the  palsied  limbs  of  the  aged,  and  the 
sightless  eyeballs  of  the  blind. 

Occasionally,  too,  the  postilion  drew  up  in 
front  of  a  dingy  little  cabaret,  completely  over- 
shadowed by  wide-spreading  trees.  A  lusty  grape- 
vine clambered  up  beside  the  door ;  and  a  pine- 
bough  was  thrust  out  from  a  hole  in  the  wall,  by 
way  of  tavern-bush.  Upon  the  front  of  the  house 
was  generally  inscribed  in  large  black  letters, 

"Id  ON  DONNE  A  BOIRE  ET  A  MANGER;  ON 
LOGE  A  PIED  ET  A  CHEVAL  "  J  a  sign  which 

may  be  thus  paraphrased,  —  "  Good  entertain- 
ment for  man  and  beast "  ;  but  which  was  once 
translated  by  a  foreigner,  "  Here  they  give  to 
eat  and,  drink  ;  they  lodge  on  foot  and  on  horse- 
back !  " 

Thus  one  object  of  curiosity  succeeded  an- 


22  THE    NORMAN    DILIGENCE. 

other  ;  hill,  valley,  stream,  and  woodland  flitted 
by  me  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  magic  lantern, 
and  one  train  of  thought  gave  place  to  another  ; 
till  at  length,  in  the  after  part  of  the  day,  we 
entered  the  broad  and  shady  avenue  of  fine  old 
trees  which  leads  to  the  western  gate  of  Rouen, 
and  a  few  moments  afterward  were  lost  in  the 
crowds  and  confusion  of  its  narrow  streets. 


THE 

GOLDEN  LION  INN. 


.Monsieur  f'inot.  Je  veux  absolument  un  Lion  d'Or : 
parce  qu'on  dit,  Ou  allez-vous  r  Au  Lion  d'Or  !  —  D'oa 
venez-vous  ?  Du  Lion  d'Or  !  —  Oft  irons-nous  ?  Au  Lion 
d'Or  !  —  Ou  y  a-t-il  de  bon  vin  ?  Au  Lion  d'Or  ! 

LA  ROSE  ROUGE. 


THIS  answer  of  Monsieur  Vinot  must  have 
been  running  in  my  head  as  the  diligence  stopped 
at  the  Messagerie  ;  for  when  die  porter,  who 
took  my  luggage,  said  :  — 

"  Ou  allcz-vous,  Monsieur  ?  " 

I  answered,  without  reflection  (for,  be  it  said 
with  all  the  veracity  of  a  traveller,  at  that  time 
I  did  not  know  there  was  a  Golden  Lion  in  the 


->, 
".auLionef 

And  so  to  the  Lion  d'Or  we  went. 

The  hostess  of  the  Golden  Lion  received 
me  wi(h  a  courtesy  and  a  smile,  rang  the  house- 
bell  for  a  servant,  and  told  him  to  take  the  gen- 
tleman's things  to  number  thirty-five.  I  fol- 


24  THE    GOLDEN    LION    INN. 

lowed  him  up  stairs.  One,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six,  seven  !  Seven  stories  high,  by  Our 
Lady  !  —  I  counted  them  every  one  ;  and  when 
I  went  down  to  remonstrate,  I  counted  them 
again  ;  so  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  a  mis- 
take. When  I  asked  for  a  lower  room,  the  host- 
ess told  me  the  house  was  full  ;  and  when  I 
spoke  of  going  to  another  hotel,  she  said  she 
should  be  so  very  sorry,  so  desolee,  to  have 
Monsieur  leave  her,  that  I  marched  up  again  to 
number  thirty-five. 

After  finding  all  the  fault  I  could  with  the 
chamber,  I  ended,  as  is  generally  the  case  with 
most  men  on  such  occasions,  by  being  very  well 
pleased  with  it.  The  only  thing  I  could  pos- 
sibly complain  of  was  my  being  lodged  in  the 
seventh  story,  and  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  a  gentleman  who  was  learning  to  play 
the  French  horn.  But  to  remunerate  me  for 
these  disadvantages,  my  window  looked  down 
into  a  market-place,  and  gave  me  a  distant  view 
of  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  ruins  of 
the  church  and  abbey  of  St.  Ouen. 

When  I  had  fully  prepared  myself  for  a  ram- 
ble through  the  city,  it  was  already  sunset  ; 
and  after  the  heat  and  dust  of  the  day,  the  fresh- 


THE    GOLDEN   LION    IXX-  25 

ness  of  the  tang  evening  twilight  was  defight- 
fiiL  When  I  enter  a  new  city,  I  cannot  rest 
till  I  hare  satisfied  the  first  cravings  of  curiosity 
by  rambling  through  its  streets.  Xor  can  I  en- 
dure a  cicerone,  with  his  eternal  "This  way, 
Sir/'  I  never  desire  to  be  led  directly  to  an 
object  worthy  of  a  traveller's  notice,  but  prefer 
a  thousand  times  to  find  my  own  way,  and  come 
upon  it  by  surprise.  This  was  particularly  the 
case  at  Rouen.  It  was  the  first  European  city 
of  importance  that  I  visited.  There  was  an  air 
of  antiquity  about  the  whole  city  that  breathed 
of  the  Middle  Ages;  and  so  strong  and  de- 
lightful was  the  impression  that  k  made  upon  my 
vouthlul  iniafjit*  1  HM*  .  that  nothing  which  I  after- 
ward saw  could  either  equal  or  efface  it.  I 
have  since  passed  through  that  city,  but  I  did 
not  stop.  I  was  unwilling  to  destroy  an  im- 
pression which,  even  at  this  distant  day,  is  as 
fresh  upon  my  mind  as  if  it  were  of  yesterday. 

With  these  delightful  feelings  I  rambled  on 
from  street  to  street,  till  at  length,  after  thread- 
ing a  narrow  aDey,  I  unexpectedly  came  out  • 
front  of  the  magnificent  cathedral.  If  h  had 
suddenly 'risen  from  the  earth,  the  effect  could 
not  have  been  more  powerful  and  instantaneous. 


26  THE    GOLDEN    LION    INN. 

It  completely  overwhelmed  my  imagination  ;  and 
I  stood  for  a  long  time  motionless,  gazing  en- 
tranced upon  the  stupendous  edifice.  I  had 
before  seen  no  specimen  of  Gothic  architect- 
ure, save  the  remains  of  a  little  church  at  Havre ; 
and  the  massive  towers  before  me,  the  lofty 
windows  of  stained  glass,  the  low  portal,  with 
its  receding  arches  and  rude  statues,  all  pro- 
duced upon  my  untravelled  mind  an  impression 
of  awful  sublimity.  When  I  entered  the  church, 
the  impression  was  still  more  deep  and  solemn. 
It  was  the  hour  of  vespers.  The  religious 
twilight  of  the  place,  the  lamps  that  burned  on 
the  distant  altar,  the  kneeling  crowd,  the  tink- 
ling bell,  and  the  chant  of  the  evening  service 
that  rolled  along  the  vaulted  roof  in  broken  and 
repeated  echoes,  filled  me  with  new  and  intense 
emotions.  When  I  gazed  on  the  stupendous 
architecture  of  the  church,  the  huge  columns  that 
the  eye  followed  up  till  they  were  lost  in  the 
gathering  dusk  of  the  arches  above,  the  long 
and  shadowy  aisles,  the  statues  of  saints  and  mar- 
tyrs that  stood  in  every  recess,  the  figures  of 
armed  knights  upon  the  tombs,  the  uncertain 
light  that  stole  through  the  painted  windows  of 
each  little  chapel,  and  the  form  of  the  cowled 


THE    GOLDEN    LION    INN.  27 

and  solitary  monk,  kneeling  at  the  shrine  of  his 
favorite  saint,  or  passing  between  the  lofty  col- 
umns of  the  church,  —  all  I  had  read  of,  but 
had  not  seen,  —  I  was  transported  back  to  the 
Dark  Ages,  and  felt  as  I  can  never  feel  again. 

On  the  following  day,  I  visited  the  remains 
of  an  old  palace,  built  by  Edward  the  Third, 
now  occupied  as  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the 
ruins  of  the  church  and  monastery  of  Saint 
Antoine.  I  saw  the  hole  in  the  tower  where 
the  ponderous  bell  of  the  abbey  fell  tlirough  ; 
and  took  a  peep  at  the  curious  illuminated  man- 
uscript of  Daniel  d'Aubonne  in  the  public  library. 
The  remainder  of  the  morning  was  spent  in  visit- 
ing the  ruins  of  the  ancient  abbey  of  St.  Ouen, 
which  is  now  transformed  into  the  Hotel  de  Ville, 
and  in  strolling  through  its  beautiful  gardens, 
dreaming  of  the  present  and  the  past,  and  given 
up  to  4'  a  melancholy  of  my  own." 

At  the  Table  tfHott  of  the  Golden  Lion,  1 
fell  into  conversation  with  an  elderly  gentleman, 
who  proved  to  be  a  great  antiquarian,  and  thor- 
oughly read  in  all  the  forgotten  lore  of  the  city. 
As  our  tastes  were  somewhat  similar,  we  were 
soon  upon  very  friendly  terms  ;  and  after  din- 
ner we  strolled  out  to  visit  some  remarkable 


28  THE    GOLDEN    LION    INN. 

localities,  and   took  the  gloria   together   in   the 
Chevalier  Bayard. 

When  we  returned  to  the  Golden  Lion,  he 
entertained  me  with  many  curious  stories  of  the 
spots  we  had  been  visiting.  Among  others,  he 
related  the  following  singular  adventure  of  a  monk 
of  the  abbey  of  St.  Antoine,  which  amused  me 
so  much  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  presenting 
it  to  my  readers.  I  will  not,  however,  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  the  story  ;  for  that  the  anti- 
quarian himself  would  not  do.  He  said  he  found 
it  in  an  ancient  manuscript  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
in  the  archives  of  the  public  library  ;  and  I 
give  it  as  it  was  told  me,  without  note  or  com- 
ment. 


MARTIN   FRANC 

am 
THE  MONK  OF  SAINT  ANTHONY  * 


Sognor,  «*x  me  merreiBe, 
CTonqaes  n'olstes  a  pxreille, 
Qne  je  TtMToeO  direct  center; 

FABLXIC  DC  BOCCHIIR  o 


Lystyn  Lordyngs  to  nry  tale, 

And  ye  shall  here  of  one  story, 
fa  better  than  any  wyne  or  ale, 

Tint  erer  was  made  in  this  entry. 

Ascttsr  METBICAI.  KOMAJCE 


Is  times  of  old,  there  fired  in  the  city  of 
Rouen  a  tradesman  named  Martin  Franc,  who, 

*  The  ootfinesof  the  following  tafe  were  taken  from  a 
Norman  Fabfian  of  the  thirteenth  century,  entitled  Le  &- 
grtaukJUne.  To  jndgeby  the  ..••LMI.J  n«t«tio»  of  thk 
•tory  which  tffll  ezkt  in  old  Norman  poetry,  it  Kerns  to  hare 
of  h>  day ,  and  to  hmt  passed 
s  as  did  the  body  of  Friar  Goi.  It  prob- 
ably had  in  origin  in  "  The  Story  of  the  Little  Hunchback,  ' 
a  tale  of  the  Anlia  Nights ;  and  in  modern  tnnec  ha*  been 
nitated  in  the  poetietale  of  "Tbe  Knight  and  the  Friar," 
by  George  Colman. 


30  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

by  a  series  of  misfortunes,  had  been  reduced 
from  opulence  to  poverty.  But  poverty,  which 
generally  makes  men  humble  and  laborious,  only 
served  to  make  him  proud  and  lazy ;  and  in 
proportion  as  he  grew  poorer  and  poorer,  he 
grew  also  prouder  and  lazier.  He  contrived, 
however,  to  live  along  from  day  to  day,  by  now 
and  then  pawning  a  silken  robe  of  his  wife,  or 
selling  a  silver  spoon,  or  some  other  trifle  saved 
from  the  wreck  of  his  better  fortunes  ;  and  passed 
his  time  pleasantly  enough  in  loitering  about  the 
market-place,  and  walking  up  and  down  on  the 
sunny  side  of  the  street. 

The  fair  Marguerite,  his  wife,  was  celebrated 
through  the  whole  city  for  her  beauty,  her  wit, 
and  her  virtue.  She  was  a  brunette,  with  the 
blackest  eye,  the  whitest  teeth,  and  the  ripest 
nut-brown  cheek  in  all  Normandy ;  her  figure 
was  tall  and  stately,  her  hands  and  feet  most 
delicately  moulded,  and  her  swimming  gait  like 
the  motion  of  a  swan.  In  happier  days  she 
had  been  the  delight  of  the  richest  tradesmen  in 
the  city,  and  the  envy  of  the  fairest  dames. 

The  friends  of  Martin  Franc,  like  the  friends 
of  many  a  ruined  man  before  and  since,  desert- 
ed him  in  the  day  of  adversity.  Of  all  that 


THE    MONK    OF    SAINT    ANTHONY.  31 

had  eaten  his  dinners,  and  drunk  his  wine,  and 
flattered  his  wife,  none  sought  the  narrow  alley 
and  humble  dwelling  of  the  broken  tradesman 
save  one,  and  that  one  was  Friar  Gui,  the  sac- 
ristan of  the  abbey  of  Saint  Anthony.  He  was 
a  little,  jolly,  red-faced  friar,  with  a  leer  in  his 
eye,  and  rather  a  doubtful  reputation  ;  but  as  he 
was  a  kind  of  travelling  gazette,  and  always 
brought  the  latest  news  and  gossip  of  the  city, 
and  besides  was  the  only  person  that  condescend- 
ed to  visit  the  house  of  Martin  Franc,  —  in  6ne, 
for  the  want  of  a  better,  he  was  considered  in 
the  light  of  a  friend. 

In  these  constant  assiduities,  Friar  Gui  had  his 
secret  motives,  of  which  the  single  heart  of 
Martin  Franc  was  entirely  unsuspicious.  The 
keener  eye  of  his  wife,  however,  soon  discover- 
ed two  faces  under  the  hood  ;  but  she  persever- 
ed, in  misconstruing  the  friar's  intentions,  and  in 
dexterously  turning  aside  any  expressions  of  gal- 
lantry that  fell  from  his  lips.  In  this  way  Friar 
Gui  was  for  a  long  time  kept  at  bay  ;  and  Martin 
Franc  preserved  in  the  day  of  poverty  and  dis- 
tress that  consolation  of  all  this  world's  afflictions, 
—  a  friend.  But',  finally,  things  came  to  such 
a  pass,  that  the  honest  tradesman  opened  his 


32  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

eyes,  and  wondered  he  had  been  asleep  so  long. 
Whereupon  he  was  irreverent  enough  to  thrust 
Friar  Gui  into  the  street  by  the  shoulders. 

Meanwhile  the  times  grew  worse  and  worse. 
One  family  relic  followed  another,  —  the  last  silk- 
en robe  was  pawned,  the  last  silver  spoon  sold  ; 
until  at  length  poor  Martin  Franc  was  forced  to 
"  drag  the  devil  by  the  tail "  ;  in  other  words, 
beggary  stared  him  full  in  the  face.  But  the  fair 
Marguerite  did  not  even  then  despair.  In  those 
days  a  belief  in  the  immediate  guardianship  of  the 
saints  was  much  more  strong  and  prevalent  than 
in  these  lewd  and  degenerate  times  ;  and  as  there 
seemed  no  great  probability  of  improving  their 
condition  by  any  lucky  change  which  could  be 
brought  about  by  mere  human  agency,  she  deter- 
mined to  try  what  could  be  done  by  intercession 
with  the  patron  saint  of  her  husband.  Accord- 
ingly she  repaired  one  evening  to  the  abbey  of 
St.  Anthony,  to  place  a  votive  candle  and  offer 
her  prayer  at  the  altar,  which  stood  in  the  little 
chapel  dedicated  to  St.  Martin. 

It  was  already  sunset  when  she  reached  the 
church,  and  the  evening  service  of  the  Virgin  had 
commenced.  A  cloud  of  incense  floated  before 
the  altar  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  organ  rolled  its 


THE    MOKK    OF    SAIXT   AXTHOXT.  33 

deep  melody  alonz  the  dim  arches  of  the  church. 
Marguerite  minded  with  the  kneeling  crowd,  and 
repeated  the  responses  in  Latin,  with  as  much 
devotion  as  the  most  learned  clerk  of  the  convent. 
When  the  service  was  over,  she  repaired  to  the 
chapel  of  St.  Martin,  and,  fighting  her  votive 
taper  at  the  silver  lamp  which  burned  before  his 
altar,  knelt  down  in  a  retired  pan  of  the  chapel, 
and,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  besought  the  saint 
for  aid  and  protection.  While  she  was  thus  en- 
gaged, the  church  became  gradually  deserted,  tfll 
she  TO  left,  as  she  thought,  alone.  But  in  this 
she  was  mistaken  ;  for,  when  she  arose  to  depart, 
the  portly  figure  of  Friar  GUI  was  standing  close 
at  her  elbow! 

"  Good  evening,  fair  Marguerite,"  said  he. 
"  St.  Martin  has  heard  your  prayer,  and  sent  me 
to  relieve  your  poverty." 

"Then,  by  the  Virgin!"  replied  she,  "the 
good  saint  is  not  very  fastidious  in  the  choice  of 


"Nay,  goodwife,"  answered  the  friar,  not  at 
all  abashed  by  this  ungracious  reply,  "if  the 
tidings  are  good,  what  matters  it  who  the  messen- 
ger may  be  ?  And  how  does  Martin  Franc  these 
days?" 

3 


34  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

"He  is  well,"  replied  Marguerite  ;  "and  were 
he  present,  I  doubt  not  would  thank  you  heartily 
for  the  interest  you  still  take  in  him  and  his  poor 
wife." 

"  He  has  done  me  wrong,"  continued  the  friar. 
"  But  it  is  our  duty  to  forgive  our  enemies ;  and 
so  let  the  past  be  forgotten.  I  know  that  he  is  in 
want.  Here,  take  this  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  am 
still  his  friend." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  small  purse  from  the 
sleeve  of  his  habit,  and  proffered  it  to  his  com- 
panion. I  know  not  whether  it  were  a  suggestion 
of  St.  Martin,  but  true  it  is  that  the  fair  wife  of 
Martin  Franc  seemed  to  lend  a  more  willing  ear 
to  the  earnest  whispers  of  the  friar.  At  length 
she  said,  — 

"  Put  up  your  purse  ;  to-day  I  can  neither  de- 
liver your  gift  nor  your  message.  Martin  Franc 
has  gone  from  home." 

"  Then  keep  it  for  yourself." 

"  Nay,  Sir  Monk,"  replied  Marguerite,  casting 
down  her  eyes  ;  "I  can  take  no  bribes  here  in 
the  church,  and  in  the  very  chapel  of  my  hus- 
band's patron  saint.  You  shall  bring  it  to  me  at 
my  house,  if  you  will." 

The  friar  put  up  the  purse,  and  the  conver- 


THE    MOXK    OF    SAINT    ANTHOXY.  35 

sation  which  followed  was  in  a  low  and  indis- 
tinct undertone,  audible  only  to  the  ears  for  which 
it  was  intended.  At  length  the  interview  ceased ; 
and —  O  woman  !  —  the  last  words  that  the  vir- 
tuous Marguerite  uttered,  as  she  glided  from  the 
church,  were,  — 

"  To-night ;  — when  the  abbey-clock  strikes 
twelve  ;  —  remember  !  " 

It  would  be  useless  to  relate  bow  impatiently 
the  friar  counted  the  hours  and  the  quarters  as 
they  chimed  from  the  ancient  tower  of  the  ab- 
bey, while  he  paced  to  and  fro  along  the  gloomy 
cloister.  At  length  the  appointed  hour  approach- 
ed ;  and  just  before  the  convent-bell  sent  forth 
its  summons  to  call  the  friars  of  St.  Anthony 
to  their  midnight  devotions,  a  figure,  with  a  cowl, 
stole  out  of  a  postern-gate,  and,  passing  silently 
along  the  deserted  streets,  soon  turned  into  the 
little  alley  which  led  to  the  dwelling  of  Martin 
Franc.  It  was  none  other  than  Friar  Gui.  He 
rapped  softly  at  the  tradesman's  door,  and  cast- 
ing a  look  up  and  down  the  street,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  that  his  motions  were  unobserved,  slipped 
into  the  house. 

"Has  Martin  Franc  returned?"  inquired  he 
in  a  whisper. 


36  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

"  No,"  answered  the  sweet  voice  of  his  wife  ; 
"  he  will  not  be  back  to-night." 

"  Then  all  good  angels  befriend  us  !  "  con- 
tinued the  monk,  endeavouring  to  take  her  hand. 

"  Not  so,  good  Monk,"  said  she,  disengaging 
herself.  "  You  forget  the  conditions  of  our 
meeting." 

The  friar  paused  a  moment ;  and  then,  draw- 
ing a  heavy  leathern  purse  from  his  girdle,  he 
threw  it  upon  the  table  ;  at  the  same  moment 
a  footstep  was  heard  behind  him,  and  a  heavy 
blow  from  a  club  threw  him  prostrate  upon  the 
floor.  It  came  from  the  strong  arm  of  Martin 
Franc  himself ! 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  his  absence 
was  feigned.  His  wife  had  invented  the  story 
to  decoy  the  monk,  and  thereby  to  keep  her 
husband  from  beggary,  and  to  relieve  herself, 
once  for  all,  from  the  importunities  of  a  false 
friend.  At  first  Martin  Franc  would  not  lis- 
ten to  the  proposition  ;  but  at  length  he  yielded 
to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  his  wife  ;  and  the 
plan  finally  agreed  upon  was,  that  Friar  Gui, 
after  leaving  his  purse  behind  him,  should  be 
sent  back  to  the  convent  with  a  severer  discipline 
than  his  shoulders  had  ever  received  from  any 
penitence  of  his  own. 


THE    MONK    OP    SAINT    ANTHONY.  37 

The  affair,  however,  took  a  more  serious  turn 
than  was  intended  ;  for,  when  they  tried  to  raise 
the  friar  from  the  ground,  —  he  was  dead.  The 
blow  aimed  at  his  shoulders  fell  upon  his  shaven 
crown  ;  and,  ra  the  excitement  of  the  moment, 
Martin  Franc  had  dealt  a  heavier  stroke  than  he 
intended.  Amid  the  grief  and  consternation 
which  followed  this  discovery,  the  quick  imagina- 
tion of  his  wife  suggested  an  expedient  of  safety. 
A  bunch  of  keys  at  the  friar's  girdle  caught  her 
eye.  Hastily  unfastening  the  ring,  she  gave  the 
keys  to  her  husband,  exclaiming,  — 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake,  be  quick  !  One 
of  these  keys  doubtless  unlocks  the  gate  of  the 
convent-garden.  Carry  the  body  thither,  and 
leave  it  among  the  trees  !  " 

Martin  Franc  threw  the  dead  body  of  the 
monk  across  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  heavy 
heart  took  the  way  to  the  abbey.  It  was  a  clear, 
starry  night  ;  and  though  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen,  her  light  was  in  the  sky,  and  came  re- 
flected down  in  a  soft  twilight  upon  earth.  Not 
a  sound  was  heard  through  afl  the  long  and  soli- 
tary streets,  save  at  intervals  the  distant  crow- 
ing of  a  cock,  of  the  melancholy  hoot  of  an  owl 
from  the  lofty  tower  of  the  abbey.  The  silence 


38  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

weighed  like  an  accusing  spirit  upon  the  guilty 
conscience  of  Martin  Franc.  He  started  at  the 
sound  of  his  own  breathing,  as  he  panted  under 
the  heavy  burden  of  the  monk's  body  ;  and  if, 
perchance,  a  bat  flitted  near  him  on  drowsy 
wings,  he  paused,  and  his  heart  beat  audibly  with 
terror.  At  length  he  reached  the  garden-wall 
of  the  abbey,  opened  the  postern-gate  with  the 
key,  and,  bearing  the  monk  into  the  garden,  seat- 
ed him  upon  a  stone  bench  by  the  edge  of 
the  fountain,  with  his  head  resting  against  a  col- 
umn, upon  which  was  sculptured  an  image  of 
the  Madonna.  He  then  replaced  the  bunch  of 
keys  at  the  monk's  girdle,  and  returned  home 
with  hasty  steps. 

When  the  prior  of  the  convent,  to  whom  the 
repeated  delinquencies  of  Friar  Gui  were  but  too 
well  known,  observed  that  he  was  again  absent 
from  his  post  at  midnight  prayers,  he  waxed  ex- 
ceedingly angry  ;  and  no  sooner  were  the  duties 
of  the  chapel  finished,  than  he  sent  a  monk  in 
pursuit  of  the  truant  sacristan,  summoning  him 
to  appear  immediately  at  his  cell.  By  chance 
it  happened  that  the  monk  chosen  for  this  duty 
was  an  enemy  of  Friar  Gui  ;  and  very  shrewdly 
supposing  that  the  sacristan  had  stolen  out  of  the 


THE    MONK    OF    SAINT    AXTH05Y.  39 

garden-gate  on  some  midnight  adventure,  he 
took  that  direction  in  pursuit.  The  moon  was 
just  climbing  the  convent-wall,  and  threw  its 
silvery  light  through  the  trees  of  the  garden, 
and  on  the  sparkling  waters  of  the  fountain,  that 
fell  with  a  soft  lulling  sound  into  the  deep  ba- 
sin below.  As  the  monk  passed  on  his  way, 
he  stopped  to  quench  his  thirst  with  a  draught 
of  the  cool  water,  and  was  turning  to  depart, 
when  his  eye  caught  the  motionless  form  of  the 
sacristan,  sitting  erect  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone 
column. 

"  How  is  this,  Friar  Gui  ?  "  quoth  the  monk. 
"  Is  this  a  pkce  to  be  sleeping  at  midnight,  when 
the  brotherhood  are  all  at  their  prayers  ?  " 

Friar  Gui  made  no  answer. 

"  Up,  up  !  thou  eternal  sleeper,  and  do  pen- 
ance for  thy  negligence.  The  prior  calls  for 
thee  at  his  cell  !  "  continued  the  monk,  grow- 
ing angry,  and  shaking  the  sacristan  by  the 
shoulder. 

But  still  no  answer. 

"  Then,  by  Saint  Anthony,  I  '11  wake  thee  !  " 

And  saying  this,  be  dealt  the  sacristan  a  heavy 
box  on  the  ear.  The  body  bent  slowly  forward 
from  its  erect  position,  and,  giving  a  headlong 


40  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

plunge,  sank  with  a  heavy  splash  into  the  basin 
of  the  fountain.  The  monk  waited  a  few  mo- 
ments in  expectation  of  seeing  Friar  Gui  rise 
dripping  from  his  cold  bath  ;  but  he  waited  in 
vain  ;  for  he  lay  motionless  at  the  bottom  of  the 
basin,  —  his  eyes  open,  and  his  ghastly  face  dis- 
torted by  the  ripples  of  the  water.  With  a  beat- 
ing heart  the  monk  stooped  down,  and,  grasping 
the  skirt  of  the  sacristan's  habit,  at  length  suc- 
ceeded in  drawing  him  from  the  water.  All 
efforts,  however,  to  resuscitate  him  were  unavail- 
ing. The  monk  was  filled  with  terror,  not  doubt- 
ing that  the  friar  had  died  untimely  by  his  hand  ; 
and  as  the  animosity  between  them  was  no  se- 
cret in  the  convent,  he  feared,  that,  when  the 
deed  was  known,  he  should  be  accused  of  mur- 
der. He  therefore  looked  round  for  an  expe- 
dient to  relieve  himself  from  the  dead  body ;  and 
the  well  known  character  of  the  sacristan  soon 
suggested  one.  He  determined  to  carry  the 
body  to  the  house  of  the  most  noted  beauty  of 
Rouen,  and  leave  it  on  the  door-step  ;  so  that 
all  suspicion  of  the  murder  might  fall  upon  the 
shoulders  of  some  jealous  husband.  The  beauty 
of  Martin  Franc's  wife  had  penetrated  even  the 
thick  walls  of  the  convent,  and  there  was  not  a 


THE    MONK    OF    SAI^T    ASTHOST.  41 

friar  in  the  whole  abbey  of  Saint  Anthony  who 
had  not  done  penance  for  his  truant  imagination. 
Accordingly,  the  dead  body  of  Friar  Gui  was 
laid  upon  the  monk's  brawny  shoulders,  carried 
back  to  the  house  of  Martin  Franc,  and  placed  in 
an  erect  position  against  the  door.  The  monk 
knocked  loud  and  long  ;  and  then,  gliding  through 
a  by-lane,  stole  back  to  the  convent. 

A  troubled  conscience  would  not  suffer  Martin 
Franc  and  his  wife  to  close  their  eyes  ;  but  they 
lay  awake  lamenting  the  doleful  events  of  the 
night.  The  knock  at  the  door  sounded  like  a 
death-knell  in  their  ears.  It  still  continued  at 
intervals,  rap  —  rap  —  rap !  —  with  a  dull,  low 
sound,  as  if  something  heavy  were  swinging  against 
the  panel ;  for  the  wind  had  risen  during  the  night, 
and  every  angry  gust  that  swept  down  the  alley 
swung  the  arms  of  the  lifeless  sacristan  against  the 
door.  At  length  Martin  Franc  mustered  courage 
enough  to  dress  himself  and  go  down,  while  his 
wife  followed  him  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand  ;  but 
no  sooner  had  he  lifted  the  latch,  than  the  ponder- 
ous body  of  Friar  .Gui  fell  stark  and  heavy  into 
his  arms. 

"  Jesu  Maria  !  "  exclaimed  Marguerite,  cross- 
ing herself;  "  here  is  the  monk  again  !  " 


42  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

"  Yes,  and  dripping  wet,  as  if  he  had  just  been 
dragged  out  of  the  river  !  " 

"  O,  we  are  betrayed  !  "  exclaimed  Margue- 
rite, in  agony. 

"  Then  the  devil  himself  has  betrayed  us,"  re- 
plied Martin  Franc,  disengaging  himself  from  the 
embrace  of  the  sacristan  ;  "  for  I  met  not  a  living 
being  ;  the  whole  city  was  as  silent  as  the  grave." 

"  Saint  Martin  defend  us  !  "  continued  his 
terrified  wife.  "  Here,  take  this  scapulary  to 
guard  you  from  the  Evil  One  ;  and  lose  no  time. 
You  must  throw  the  body  into  the  river,  or  we 
are  lost  !  Holy  Virgin  !  How  bright  the  moon 
shines  ! " 

Saying  this,  she  threw  round  his  neck  a  scapu- 
lary, with  the  figure  of  a  cross  on  one  end,  and  an 
image  of  the  Virgin  on  the  other  ;  and  Martin 
Franc  again  took  the  dead  friar  upon  his  should- 
ers, and  with  fearful  misgivings  departed  on  his 
dismal  errand.  He  kept  as  much  as  possible  in 
the  shadow  of  the  houses,  and  had  nearly  reached 
the  quay,  when  suddenly  he  thought  he  heard 
footsteps  behind  him.  He  stopped  to  listen  ;  it 
was  no  vain  imagination  ;  they  came  along  the 
pavement,  tramp,  tramp  !  and  every  step  grew 
louder  and  nearer.  Martin  Franc  tried  to  quick- 


THE    MONK    OF    SAINT    ANTHONY.  43 

en  his  pace,  —  but  in  vain ;  his  knees  smote  to- 
gether, and  he  staggered  against  the  wall.  His 
hand  relaxed  its  grasp,  and  the  monk  slid  from  his 
back  and  stood  ghastly  and  straight  beside  him, 
supported  by  chance  against  the  shoulder  of  his 
bearer.  At  that  moment  a  man  came  round  the 
corner,  tottering  beneath  the  weight  of  a  huge 
sack.  As  his  head  was  bent  downwards,  he  did 
not  perceive  Martin  Franc  till  he  was  close  upon 
him  ;  and  when,  on  looking  up,  he  saw  two 
figures  standing  motionless  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  be  thought  himself  waylaid,  and,  without 
waiting  to  be  assaulted,  dropped  the  sack  from 
his  shoulders  and  ran  off  at  full  speed.  The  sack 
fell  heavily  on  the  pavement,  and  directly  at  the 
feet  of  Martin  Franc.  In  the  fall  the  string  was 
broken  ;  and  out  came  the  bloody  head,  not  of 
a  dead  monk,  as  it  first  seemed  to  the  excited 
imagination  of  Martin  Franc,  but  of  a  dead  hog  ! 
When  the  terror  and  surprise  caused  by  this 
singular  event  had  a  little  subsided,  an  idea  came 
into  the  mind  of  Martin  Franc,  very  similar  to 
what  would  have  come  into  the  mind  of  almost 
any  person  in  similar  circumstances.  He  took 
the  hog  out  of  the  sack,  and,  putting  the  body  of 
the  monk  into  its  pkce,  secured  it  well  with  the 


44  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

remnants  of  the  broken  string,  and  then  hurried 
homeward  with  the  animal  upon  his  shoulders. 

He  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  man  with 
the  sack  returned,  accompanied  by  two  others. 
They  were  surprised  to  find  the  sack  still  lying  on 
the  ground,  with  no  one  near  it,  and  began  to  jeer 
the  former  bearer,  telling  him  he  had  been  fright- 
ened at  his  own  shadow  on  the  wall.  Then  one 
of  them  took  the  sack  upon  his  shoulders,  without 
the  least  suspicion  of  the  change  that  had  been 
made  in  its  contents,  and  all  three  disappeared. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  city  of  Rouen  was  at 
that  time  infested  by  three  street  robbers,  who 
walked  in  darkness  like  the  pestilence,  and  always 
carried  the  plunder  of  their  midnight  marauding 
to  the  Tete-de-Boeuf,  a  little  tavern  in  one  of  the 
darkest  and  narrowest  lanes  of  the  city.  The 
host  of  the  Tete-de-Bceuf  was  privy  to  all  their 
schemes,  and  had  an  equal  share  in  the  profits 
of  their  nightly  excursions.  He  gave  a  helping 
hand,  too,  by  the  length  of  his  bills,  and  by  plun- 
dering the  pockets  of  any  chance  traveller  that 
was  luckless  enough  to  sleep  under  his  roof. 

On  the  night  of  the  disastrous  adventure  of 
Friar  Gui,  this  little  marauding  party  had  been 
prowling  about  the  city  until  a  late  hour,  without 


THE    MO27K   OF   SAI5T    ASTHOSF.  45 

finding  any  thing  to  reward  their  labors.  At 
length,  however,  they  chanced  to  spy  a  hog, 
hanging  under  a  shed  in  a  butcher's  yard,  in 
readiness  for  the  next  day's  market ;  and  as  they 
were  not  very  fastidious  in  selecting  their  plunder, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  rather  addicted  to  taking 
whatever  they  could  by  their  hands  on,  the  hog 
was  straightway  purloined,  thrust  into  a  large  sack, 
and  sent  to  the  Tete-de-Bceuf  on  the  shoulders 
of  one  of  the  party,  while  the  other  two  continued 
their  nocturnal  excursion.  It  was  this  person  who 
had  been  so  terrified  at  the  appearance  of  Martin 
Franc  and  the  dead  monk  ;  and  as  this  encounter 
had  interrupted  any  further  operations  of  the  parry, 
die  dawn  of  day  being  now  near  at  hand,  they 
all  repaired  to  their  gloomy  den  in  the  Tete-de- 
Boeuf.  The  host  was  impatiently  waiting  their 
return ;  and,  asking  what  plunder  they  had  brought 
wilh  them,  proceeded  without  delay  to  remove  it 
from  the  sack.  The  first  thing  that  presented 
itself,  on  untying  the  string,  was  the  monk's  hood. 

"  The  devil  take  the  devil ! "  cried  the  host, 
as  he  opened  die  neck  of  the  sack  ;  "what's 
this?  Your  bog  wears,  a  cowl !" 

"  The  poor  derfl  has  become  disgusted  with 
die  world,  and  turned  monk  !"  said  be  who  held 


46  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

the  light,  a  little  surprised  at  seeing  the  head 
covered  with  a  coarse  gray  cloth. 

"  Sure  enough  he  has,"  exclaimed  another, 
starting  back  in  dismay,  as  the  shaven  crown  and 
ghastly  face  of  the  friar  appeared.  u  Holy  St. 
Benedict  be  with  us  !  It  is  a  monk  stark  dead  !  " 

"  A  dead  monk,  indeed  !  "  said  a  third,  with 
an  incredulous  shake  of  the  head  ;  "  how  could  a 
dead  monk  get  into  this  sack  ?  No,  no  ;  there  is 
some  diablerie  in  this.  T  have  heard  it  said  that 
Satan  can  take  any  shape  he  pleases  ;  and  you 
may  rely  upon  it  this  is  Satan  himself,  who  has 
taken  the  shape  of  a  monk  to  get  us  all  hanged." 

"  Then  we  had  better  kill  the  devil  than  have 
the  devil  kill  us  ! "  replied  the  host,  crossing  him- 
self; "  and  the  sooner  we  do  it  the  better  ;  for  it 
is  now  daylight,  and  the  people  will  soon  be  pass- 
ing in  the  street." 

"  So  say  I,"  rejoined  the  man  of  magic  ;  "  and 
my  advice  is,  to  take  him  to  the  butcher's  yard, 
and  hang  him  up  in  the  place  where  we  found  the 
hog." 

This  proposition  so  pleased  the  others  that  it 
was  executed  without  delay.  They  carried  the 
friar  to  the  butcher's  house,  and,  passing  a  strong 
cord  round  his  neck,  suspended  him  to  a  beam 
in  the  shade,  and  there  left  him. 


THE    MONK    OF    5ALST   JLSTHOXT.  47 

When  the  night  was  at  length  past,  and  day- 
light began  to  peep  into  the  eastern  windows 
of  the  coy,  the  butcher  arose,  and  prepared 
himself  for  market.  He  was  casting  up  in  his 
mind  what  the  hog  would  bring  at  his  stall,  when, 
looking  upward,  lo  !  in  its  place  be  recognized 
the  dead  body  of  Friar  Gui. 

41  By  St.  Denis  !  "  quoth  the  butcher,  "  I 
always  feared  that  this  friar  would  not  die  quiet- 
ly in  his  cell ;  but  I  never  thought  I  should  find 
him  hanging  under  my  own  roof.  This  must 
not  be  ;  it  wfll  be  said  that  I  murdered  him. 
M}  I  shall  pay  for  it  with  my  life.  I  must  con- 
trive some  way  to  get  rid  of  him." 

So  saying,  be  called  his  man,  and,  showing 
him  what  had  been  done,  asked  him  bow  he 
should  dispose  of  the  body  so  that  he  might 
not  be  accused  of  murder.  The  man,  who  was 
of  a  ready  wit,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
answered, — 

"  This  is  indeed  a  difficult  matter  ;  but  there 
is  no  evil  without  its  remedy.  We  wfll  place 
the  friar  on  horseback " 

"What!  a  dead  man  on  horseback?—  im- 
possible !"  interrupted  the  butcher.  "Who 
ever  heard  of  a  dead  man  on  horseback  !  " 


48  MARTIN    FRANC    AND 

"  Hear  me  out,  and  then  judge.  We  must 
place  the  body  on  horseback  as  well  as  we  may, 
and  bind  it  fast  with  cords  ;  and  then  set  the 
horse  loose  in  the  street,  and  pursue  him,  crying 
out  that  the  monk  has  stolen  the  horse.  Thus 
all  who  meet  him  will  strike  him  with  their  staves 
as  he  passes,  and  it  will  be  thought  that  he  came 
to  his  death  in  that  way." 

Though  this  seemed  to  the  butcher  rather  a 
mad  project,  yet,  as  no  better  one  offered  itself 
at  the  moment,  and  there  was  no  time  for  re- 
flection, mad  as  the  project  was,  they  determined 
to  put  it  into  execution.  Accordingly  the  butch- 
er's horse  was  brought  out,  and  the  friar  was 
bound  upon  his  back,  and  with  much  difficulty 
fixed  in  an  upright  position.  The  butcher  then 
gave  the  horse  a  blow  upon  the  crupper  with 
his  staff,  which  set  him  into  a  smart  gallop  down 
the  street,  and  he  and  his  man  joined  in  pursuit, 
crying,  — 

"  Stop  thief !  Stop  thief !  The  friar  has 
stolen  my  horse  !  " 

As  it  was  now  sunrise,  the  streets  were  full 
of  people,  — peasants  driving  their  goods  to  mar- 
ket, and  citizens  going  to  their  daily  avocations. 
When  they  saw  the  friar  dashing  at  full  speed 


THE    MONK    OF    SAINT    ANTHONY.  49 

down  the  street,  they  joined  in  the  cry  of  "  Stop 
thief  !  —  Stop  thief !  "  and  many  who  endeav- 
oured to  seize  the  bridle,  as  the  friar  passed  them 
at  full  speed,  were  thrown  upon  the  pavement, 
and  trampled  under  foot ;  others  joined  in  the 
halloo  and  the  pursuit ;  but  this  only  served 
to  quicken  the  gallop  of  the  frightened  steed, 
who  dashed  down  one  street  and  up  another 
like  the  wind,  with  two  or  three  mounted  cit- 
izens clattering  in  full  cry  at  his  heels.  At  length 
they  reached  the  market-place.  The  people 
scattered  right  and  left  in  dismay  ;  and  the  steed 
and  rider  dashed  onward,  overthrowing  in  their 
course  men  and  women,  and  stalls,  and  piles 
of  merchandise,  and  sweeping  away  like  a  whirl- 
wind. Tramp  —  tramp  —  tramp  !  they  clattered 
on  ;  they  had  distanced  ah*  pursuit.  They  reach- 
ed the  quay  ;  the  wide  pavement  was  cleared  at 
a  bound,  —  one  more  wild  leap,  — and  splash  !  — 
both  horse  and  rider  sank  into  the  rapid  current 
of  the  river,  —  swept  down  the  stream,  —  and 
were  seen  no  more  ! 


VILLAGE  OF  AUTEUIL. 


II  n'est  tel  plaisir 
Q,ue  d'estre  a  gesir 
Parmy  les  beaux  champs, 
L'herbe  verde  choisir, 
Et  prendre  bon  temps. 

MARTIAL  D'AUVERGNE 


THE  sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings  with 
it,  to  the  idler  and  the  man  of  leisure,  a  long- 
ing for  the  leafy  shade  and  the  green  luxuriance 
of  the  country.  It  is  pleasant  to  interchange  the 
din  of  the  city,  the  movement  of  the  crowd,  and 
the  gossip  of  society,  with  the  silence  of  the 
hamlet,  the  quiet  seclusion  of  the  grove,  and  the 
gossip  of  a  woodland  brook.  As  is  sung  in  the 
old  ballad  of  Robin  Hood,  — 

"  In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyn, 

And  leves  be  large  and  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  feyre  foreste, 

To  here  the  foulys  song ; 
To  se  the  dere  draw  to  the  dale 

And  leve  the  hilles  bee, 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  grene, 

Vnder  the  grene  wode  tre." 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  51 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind  that  prompted 
me,  during  my  residence  in  the  North  of  France, 
to  pass  one  of  the  summer  months  at  Auteuil, 
the  pleasamest  of  the  many  little  villages  that 
lie  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  metropolis. 
It  is  situated  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  a  wood  of  some  extent,  in  whose 
green  alleys  the  dusty  cit  enjoys  the  luxury  of 
an  evening  drive,  and  gentlemen  meet  in  the 
morning  to  give  each  other  satisfaction  in  the 
usual  way.  A  cross-road,  skirted  with  green 
hedge-rows,  and  overshadowed  by  tall  poplars, 
leads  you  from  the  noisy  highway  of  St.  Cloud 
and  Versailles  to  the  still  retirement  of  this  sub- 
urban hamlet.  On  either  side  the  eye  discovers 
old  chateaux  amid  the  trees,  and  green  parks, 
whose  pleasant  shades  recall  a  thousand  images 
of  La  Fontaine,  Racine,  and  Moliere  ;  and  on 
an  eminence,  overlooking  the  windings  of  the 
Seine,  and  giving  a  beautiful  though  distant  view 
of  the  domes  and  gardens  of  Paris,  rises  the 
village  of  Passy,  long  the  residence  of  our  coun- 
trymen Franklin  and  Count  Rumford. 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  tnaison  de  sante  ; 
not  that  I  was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I 
there  found  some  one  to  whom  I  could  whisper, 


52  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

"  How  sweet  is  solitude  !  "  Behind  the  house 
was  a  garden  filled  with  fruit-trees  of  various 
kinds,  and  adorned  with  gravel-walks  and  green 
arbours,  furnished  with  tables  and  rustic  seats, 
for  the  repose  of  the  invalid  and  the  sleep  of 
the  indolent.  Here  the  inmates  of  the  rural 
hospital  met  on  common  ground,  to  breathe  the 
invigorating  air  of  morning,  and  while  away  the 
lazy  noon  or  vacant  evening  with  tales  of  the 
sick-chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dentde- 
lion,  a  dried-up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a 
sandy  complexion,  and  the  physiognomy  and 
gestures  of  a  monkey.  His  character  corre- 
sponded to  his  outward  lineaments  ;  for  he  had 
all  a  monkey's  busy  and  curious  impertinence. 
Nevertheless,  such  as  he  was,  the  village  jEscu- 
lapius  strutted  forth  the  little  great  man  of  Au- 
teuil.  The  peasants  looked  up  to  him  as  to  an 
oracle  ;  he  contrived  to  be  at  the  head  of  every- 
thing, and  laid  claim  to  the  credit  of  all  public 
improvements  in  the  village  ;  in  fine,  he  was  a 
great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little 
potentate's  imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my  coun- 
try residence.  I  had  a  chamber  in  the  second 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  53 

story,  with  a  solitary  window,  which  looked  upon 
the  street,  and  gave  me  a  peep  into  a  neighbour's 
garden.  This  I  esteemed  a  great  privilege  ; 
for,  as  a  stranger,  I  desired  to  see  all  that  was 
passing  out  of  doors  ;  and  the  sight  of  green 
trees,  though  growing  on  another's  ground,  is  al- 
ways a  blessing.  Within  doors  —  had  I  been 
disposed  to  quarrel  with  my  household  gods  — 
I  might  have  taken  some  objection  to  my  neigh- 
bourhood ;  for,  on  one  side  of  me  was  a  con- 
sumptive patient,  whose  graveyard  cough  drove 
me  from  my  chamber  by  day  ;  and  on  the  other, 
an  English  colonel,  whose  incoherent  ravings, 
in  the  delirium  of  a  high  and  obstinate  fever, 
often  broke  my  slumbers  by  night ;  but  I  found 
ample  amends  for  these  inconveniences  in  the 
society  of  those  who  were  so  little  indisposed 
as  hardly  to  know  what  ailed  them,  and  those 
who,  in  health  themselves,  had  accompanied  a 
friend  or  relative  to  the  shades  of  the  country 
in  pursuit  of  it.  To  these  I  am  indebted  for 
much  courtesy ;  and  particularly  to  one  who, 
if  these  pages  should  ever  meet  her  eye,  will 
not,  I  hope,  be  unwilling  to  accept  this  slight 
memorial  of  a  former  friendship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  that 


54  THE  VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

I  looked  for  my  principal  recreation.  There  I 
took  my  solitary  walk,  morning  and  evening  ;  or, 
mounted  on  a  little  mouse-colored  donkey,  paced 
demurely  along  the  woodland  pathway.  I  had 
a  favorite  seat  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  vener- 
able oak,  one  of  the  few  hoary  patriarchs  of  the 
wood  which  had  survived  the  bivouacs  of  the 
allied  armies.  It  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  lit- 
tle glassy  pool,  whose  tranquil  bosom  was  the 
image  of  a  quiet  and  secluded  life,  and  stretched 
its  parental  arms  over  a  rustic  bench,  that  had 
been  constructed  beneath  it  for  the  accommoda- 
tion of  the  foot-traveller,  or,  perchance,  some  idle 
dreamer  like  myself.  It  seemed  to  look  round 
with  a  lordly  air  upon  its  old  hereditary  domain, 
whose  stillness  was  no  longer  broken  by  the  tap 
of  the  martial  drum,  nor  the  discordant  clang  of 
arms  ;  and,  as  the  breeze  whispered  among  its 
branches,  it  seemed  to  be  holding  friendly  collo- 
quies with  a  few  of  its  venerable  contemporaries, 
who  stooped  from  the  opposite  bank  of  the  pool, 
nodding  gravely  now  and  then,  and  gazing  at 
themselves  with  a  sigh  in  the  mirror  below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to  sit 
at  noon,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  "  possess  myself 
in  much  quietness."  Just  at  my  feet  lay  the  little 


THE    TILLAGE    OP   AUTEriL.  55 

surer  pool,  with  the  sky  and  the  woods  painted  in 
its  mimic  Tank,  and  occasionally  the  image  of  a 
bird,  or  the  soft,  watery  ootfine  of  a  cloud,  floating 
alenthr  through  its  sonny  hollows.  The  water- 
ii±y  sprt^C  its  Drosc.  zr*?6n  l^svc^  c~  \r.~  sun  £.•!-. 
and  rocked  to  sleep  a  fitrie  world  of  insect  fife  in 
its  golden  cradle.  Sometimes  a  wandering  leaf 
came  floating  and  warering  downward,  and  set- 
tled on  the  water  ;  men  a  Tagabond  insect  would 
break  the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  ripples, 
or  a  green-coated  frog  slide  from  the  bank,  and, 
plump  !  (fire  'headlong  to  the  bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into  afl 
the  rural  sports  and  rnerrimakes  of  the  Tillage. 
The  bohrdays  were  so  many  Ettle  eras  of  mirth 
and  good  feefing;  forme  French  bare  that  hap- 
py  and  sunshine  temperament,  —  that  merry-go- 
mad  character, — which  renders  afl  their  social 
meetings  scenes  of  enjoyment  and  hflanty.  I 
made  h  a  point  nerer  to  miss  any  of  the  file* 
efampe  fret ,  or  rural  dances,  at  the  wood  of 
Boulogne  ;  though  I  confess  it  sometimes  gare 
me  a  momentary  uneasiness  to  see  my  rustic 
throne  beneath  the  oak  usurped  by  a  noisy  group 
of  girls,  the  silence  and  decorum  of  my  •iB^uuiy 
realm  broken  by  m^nu^  and  *atf^<^fri  and,  m  a 


56  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

word,  my  whole  kingdom  turned  topsy-turvy 
with  romping,  fiddling,  and  dancing.  But  I  am 
naturally,  and  from  principle,  too,  a  lover  of  all 
those  innocent  amusements  which  cheer  the  labor- 
er's toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  wheel  of  life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along 
with  his  load  of  cares.  Hence  I  saw  with  no 
small  delight  the  rustic  swain  astride  the  wood- 
en horse  of  the  carrousel,  and  the  village  maiden 
whirling  round  and  round  in  its  dizzy  car ;  or 
took  my  stand  on  a  rising  ground  that  over- 
looked the  dance,  an  idle  spectator  in  a  busy 
throng.  It  was  just  where  the  village  touched 
the  outward  border  of  the  wood.  There  a  little 
area  had  been  levelled  beneath  the  trees,  sur- 
rounded by  a  painted  rail,  with  a  row  of  benches 
inside.  The  music  was  placed  in  a  slight  bal- 
cony, built  around  the  trunk  of  a  large  tree  in 
the  centre  ;  and  the  lamps,  hanging  from  the 
branches  above,  gave  a  gay,  fantastic,  and  fairy 
look  to  the  scene.  How  often  in  such  moments 
did  I  recall  the  lines  of  Goldsmith,  describing 
those  "kinder  skies"  beneath  which  "France 
displays  her  bright  domain,"  and  feel  how  true 
and  masterly  the  sketch,  — 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  57 

"Alike  all  ages;  dames  of  ancient  days 
Hare  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gray  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestk  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore.  ' 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  the  fete  patro- 
naU,  —  a  kind  of  annual  fair,  which  is  held  at  mid- 
summer, in  honor  of  the  patron  saint  of  Auteuil. 
Then  the  principal  street  of  the  village  is  filled 
with  booths  of  every  description ;  strolling  play- 
ers, and  rope-dancers,  and  jugglers,  and  giants, 
and  dwarfs,  and  wild  beasts,  and  all  kinds  of 
wonderful  shows,  excite  the  gaping  curiosity  of 
the  throng  ;  and  in  dust,  crowds,  and  confusion, 
the  village  rivals  the  capital  itself.  Then  the 
goodly  dames  of  Passy  descend  into  the  village  of 
Auteuil ;  then  the  brewers  of  Billancourt  and  the 
tanners  of  Sevres  dance  lustily  under  the  green- 
wood tree  ;  and  then,  too,  the  sturdy  fishmon- 
gers of  Bretigny  and  Saint- Yon  regale  their  fat 
wives  with  an  airing  in  a  swing,  and  their  cus- 
tomers with  eels  and  crawfish  ;  or,  as  is  more 
poetically  set  forth  in  an  old  Christmas  carol,  — 

u  Vous  eossiez  TU  reniftoos  ceox  de  Saint-Yon, 
Et  ceux  de  Bretigny  apportant  da  poiseon, 
Les  barbeaax  et  gardens,  anguilles  et  carpettes 
Etoient  a  bon  marche 

Croyez, 
A  cette  joumee-la, 

Li,  la, 
Et  amsi  lea  perchettes." 


58  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

I  found  another  source  of  amusement  in  ob- 
serving the  various  personages  that  daily  passed 
and  repassed  beneath  my  window.  The  charac- 
ter which  most  of  all  arrested  my  attention  was 
a  poor  blind  fiddler,  whom  I  first  saw  chanting  a 
doleful  ballad  at  the  door  of  a  small  tavern  near 
the  gate  of  the  village.  He  wore  a  brown 
coat,  out  at  elbows,  the  fragment  of  a  velvet 
waistcoat,  and  a  pair  of  tight  nankeens,  so  short 
as  hardly  to  reach  below  his  calves.  A  little  for- 
aging cap,  that  had  long  since  seen  its  best  days, 
set  off  an  open,  good-humored  countenance, 
bronzed  by  sun  and  wind.  He  was  led  about 
by  a  brisk,  middle-aged  woman,  in  straw  hat 
and  wooden  shoes  ;  and  a  little  barefooted  boy, 
with  clear,  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  held  a  tat- 
tered hat  in  his  hand,  in  which  he  collected 
eleemosynary  sous,.  The  old  fellow  had  a  favor- 
ite song,  which  he  used  to  sing  with  great  glee 
to  a  merry,  joyous  air,  the  burden  of  which  ran 
"  Chantons  Vamour  et  le  plaisir !  "  I  often 
thought  it  would  have  been  a  good  lesson  for 
the  crabbed  and  discontented  rich  man  to  have 
heard  this  remnant  of  humanity,  —  poor,  blind, 
and  in  rags,  and  dependent  upon  casual  charity 
for  his  daily  bread,  singing  in  so  cheerful  a  voice 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIt.  59 

the  charms  of  existence,  and,  as  it  were,  fiddling 
fife  away  to  a  meny  tune. 

I  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by 
the  sound  of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out  and 
beheld  a  procession  of  villagers  advancing  along 
the  road,  attired  in  gay  dresses,  and  marching 
merrily  on  in  the  direction  of  the  church.  I 
soon  perceived  that  it  was  a  marriage-festival. 
The  procession  was  led  by  a  long  orang-outang 
of  a  man,  in -a  straw  hat  and  white  dimity  bob- 
coat,  playing  on  an  asthmatic  clarionet,  from 
which  he  contrived  to  blow  unearthly  sounds, 
ever  and  anon  squeaking  off  at  right  angles  from 
bis  tune,  and  winding  up  with  a  grand  flourish 
on  the  guttural  notes.  Behind  him,  led  by  bis 
little  boy,  came  die  blind  fiddler,  his  honest  fea- 
tures glowing  with  all  the  hilarity  of  a  rustic  bri- 
dal, and,  as  he  stumbled  along,  sawing  away  upon 
his  fiddle  till  he  made  all  crack  again.  Then 
came  the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his  Sun- 
day suit  of  blue,  with '  a  large  nosegay  in  bis 
button-hole  ;  and  close  beside  him  his  blushing 
bride,  wira  downcast  eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe 
and  slippers,  and  wearing  a  wreadi  of  white  roses 
in  her  hair.  The  friends  and  relatives  brought 
up  the  procession  ;  and  a  troop  of  Tillage  urchins 


60  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

came  shouting  along  in  the  rear,  scrambling 
among  themselves  for  the  largess  of  sous  and 
sugar-plums  that  now  and  then  issued  in  large 
handfuls  from  the  pockets  of  a  lean  man  in  black, 
who  seemed  to  officiate  as  master  of  ceremonies 
on  the  occasion.  I  gazed  on  the  procession  till 
it  was  out  of  sight  ;  and  when  the  last  wheeze 
of  the  clarionet  died  upon  my  ear,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  how  happy  were  they  who  were 
thus  to  dwell  together  in  the  peaceful  bosom  of 
their  native  village,  far  from  the  gilded  misery 
and  the  pestilential  vices  of  the  town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  I  was  sit- 
ting by  the  window,  enjoying*  the  freshness  of 
the  air  and  the  beauty  and  stillness  of  the  hour, 
when  I  heard  the  distant  and  solemn  hymn  of  the 
Catholic  burial-service,  at  first  so  faint  and  indis- 
tinct that  it  seemed  an  illusion.  It  rose  mourn- 
fully on  the  hush  of  evening,  —  died  gradually 
away,  —  then  ceased.  Then  it  rose  again,  near- 
er and  more  distinct,  and  soon  after  a  funeral 
procession  appeared,  and  passed  directly  beneath 
my  window.  It  was  led  by  a  priest,  bearing  the 
banner  of  the  church,  and  followed  by  two  boys, 
holding  long  flambeaux  in  their  hands.  Next 
came  a  double  file  of  priests  in  their  surplices, 


THE   TILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  61 

with  a  missal  in  one  hand  and  a  lighted  wax 
taper  in  the  other,  chanting  the  funeral  dirge  at 
intervals,  —  now  pausing,  and  then  again  taking 
up  the  mournful  burden  of  their  lamentation, 
accompanied  by  others,  who  played  upon  a  rude 
kind  of  bassoon,  with  a  dismal  and  wailing  sound. 
Then  followed  various  symbols  of  the  church, 
and  the  bier  borne  on  the  shoulders  of  four 
men.  The  coffin  was  covered  with  a  velvet 
pall,  and  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers  lay  upon 
it,  indicating  that  the  deceased  was  unmarried. 
A  few  of  the  villagers  came  behind,  clad  in 
mourning  robes,  and  bearing  lighted  tapers.  The 
procession  passed  slowly  along  the  same  street 
that  in  the  morning  had  been  thronged  by  the 
gay  bridal  company.  A  melancholy  train  of 
thought  forced  itself  home  upon  my  mind.  The 
joys  and  sorrows  of  this  world  are  so  strikingly 
mingled !  Our  mirth  and  grief  are  brought  so 
mournfully  in  contact !  We  laugh  while  others 
weep,  —  and  others  rejoice  when  we  are  sad ! 
The  light  heart  and  the  heavy  walk  side  by  side 
and  go  about  together  !  Beneath  the  same  roof 
are  spread  the  wedding-feast  and  the  funeral-pall  ! 
The  bridal-song  mingles  with  the  burial-hymn  ! 
One  goes  to  the  marriage-bed,  another  to  the 


62  THE    VILLAGE    OP    AUTEUIL. 

grave  ;  and  all  is  mutable,  uncertain,  and  transi- 
tory. 

It  is  with  sensations  of  pure  delight  that  I 
recur  to  the  brief  period  of  my  existence  which 
was  passed  in  the  peaceful  shades  of  Auteuil. 
There  is  one  kind  of  wisdom  which  we  learn 
from  the  world,  and  another  kind  which  can  be 
acquired  in  solitude  only.  In  cities  we  study 
those  around  us  ;  but  in  the  retirement  of  the 
country  we  learn  to  know  ourselves.  The  voice 
within  us  is  more  distinctly  audible  in  the  still- 
ness of  the  place  ;  and  the  gentler  affections 
of  our  nature  spring  up  more  freshly  in  its  tran- 
quillity and  sunshine,  — nurtured  by  the  healthy 
principle  which  we  inhale  with  the  pure  air,  and 
invigorated  by  the  genial  influences  which  de- 
scend into  the  heart  from  the  quiet  of  the  syl- 
van solitude  around,  and  the  soft  serenity  of  the 
sky  above. 


JACQUELINE. 


Upoo  the  nrecto*  flower  of  all  the  faU. 


"  DEAR  mother,  is  h  not  the  beD  I  hear  ?  " 
"  Yes,  ray  chfld ;  die  beD  for  morning  prayers. 
It  is  Sunday  to-day." 

"I  had  forgotten  it.  Bat  now  all  days  are 
afiketome.  Hark !  h  sounds  again,  —  louder, — 
louder.  Open  the  window,  for  I  lore  the  sound. 
The  sunshine  and  the  fresh  morning  air  revive 
me.  And  the  church-bell,  —  O  mother, — it 
reminds  me  of  die  holy  Sabbath  mornings  by 
the  Loire,  — so  calm,  so  hushed,  so  beautiful! 
Now  rive  me  my  prayer-book,  and  draw  die 
curtain  back,  that  I  may  see  the  green  trees  and 
die  church-spire.  I  feel  better  to-day,  dear 


It  was  a  bright,  cloudless  morning  in  August. 
The  dew  soil  glistened  on  the  trees  ;  and  a  slight 


64  JACQUELINE. 

breeze  wafted  to  the  sick-chamber  of  Jacque- 
line the  song  of  the  birds,  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves,  and  the  solemn  chime  of  the  church- 
bells.  She  had  been  raised  up  in  bed,  and,  re- 
clining upon  the  pillow,  was  gazing  wistfully 
upon  the  quiet  scene  without.  Her  mother  gave 
her  the  prayer-book,  and  then  turned  away  to 
hide  a  tear  that  stole  down  her  cheek. 

At  length  the  bells  ceased.  Jacqueline  cross- 
ed herself,  kissed  a  pearl  crucifix  that  hung 
around  her  neck,  and  opened  the  silver  clasps 
of  her  missal.  For  a  time  she  seemed  wholly 
absorbed  in  her  devotions.  Her  lips  moved,  but 
no  sound  was  audible.  At  intervals  the  solemn 
voice  of  the  priest  was  heard  at  a  distance,  and 
then  the  confused  responses  of  the  congregation, 
dying  away  in  inarticulate  murmurs.  Ere  long 
the  thrilling  chant  of  the  Catholic  service  broke 
upon  the  ear.  At  first  it  was  low,  solemn,  and 
indistinct  ;  then  it  became  more  earnest  and  en- 
treating, as  if  interceding  and  imploring  pardon 
for  sin  ;  and  then  arose  louder  and  louder,  full, 
harmonious,  majestic,  as  it  wafted  the  song  of 
praise  to  heaven,  —  and  suddenly  ceased.  Then 
the  sweet  tones  of  the  organ  were  heard,  — 
trembling,  thrilling,  and  rising  higher  and  higher, 


JACQUELINE.  65 

and  fiffing  the  whole  air  whh  their  rich,  mek>- 

-II,  .-I  -  mmmmimm  I^Tl- — •.  -  —       *   -^-  _  1_      |  •  „  I.    •  » 

(DOUS    IHH  tm  11  DB!   6XQIBSKC    «CCOruS  I  — —  WDM 

soul  of  the  sick  girl  seemed  to  kindle  into  more 
ardent  devotion,  and  to  be  rapt  away  to  heaven  in 
the  faD,  lBiiiM»ikHt>  chores,  as  it  swelled  onward. 

•iLi^-ULu       ..ml     .MiLi IJ^LM        m.MLjt     ~*JKm~m- 1      ' 

ooonong  ana  reaoooinK,  ana  roums  opwara  m  a 
full  burst  of  rapturous  devotion  !  Then  afl  was 
hushed  acain.  Once  more  die  low  sound  of  the 
befl  smote  die  air,  an 
of  the  host.  The  invalid  seemed 
prarer.  Her  book  had  &Den  beside  her,  —  her 
were  clasped, — her  ejes  closed,  —  her 
its  secret  chambers.  Then  a 
peal  of  befls  arose.  The  tears 
her  closed  and  swollen  fids;  her 
cheek  was  flushed;  she  opened  her  dark  eves, 
and  fixed  diem  wim  an  expression  of  deep  adora- 
tion and  penitence  opon  an  image  of  the  Saviour 
on  the  cross,  which  hung  at  the  foot  of  her  bed, 
and  her  lips  again  moved  in  prayer.  Her  coun- 
tenance expressed  the  deepest  resignation.  She 
seemed  to  ask  only  mat  she  might  die  in  peace, 
and  go  to  the  bosom  of  her  Redeemer. 

The  mother  was  kneeling  by  die  window, 
with  her  face  concealed  in  die  (bids  of  the  OT- 
.' 


66  JACQUELINE. 

tain.  She  arose,  and,  going  to  the  bedside  of 
her  child,  threw  her  arms  around  her  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  shall  not  live  long  ;  I 
feel  it  here.  This  piercing  pain,  —  at  times  it 
seizes  me,  and  I  cannot  —  cannot  breathe." 

"  My  child,  you  will  be  better  soon.'' 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  shah1  be  better  soon.  All 
tears,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  will  be  over.  The 
hymn  of  adoration  and  entreaty  I  have  just  heard, 
I  shall  never  hear  again  on  earth.  Next  Sab- 
bath, mother,  kneel  again  by  that  window  as 
to-day.  I  shall  not  be  here,  upon  this  bed  of 
pain  and  sickness  ;  but  when  you  hear  the  solemn 
hymn  of  worship,  and  the  beseeching  tones  that 
wing  the  spirit  up  to  God,  think,  mother,  that  I 
am  there,  with  my  sweet  sister  who  has  gone  be- 
fore us, — kneeling  at  our  Saviour's  feet,  and 
happy,  — O,  how  happy  !  " 

The  afflicted  mother  made  no  reply,  —  her 
heart  was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  You  remember,  mother,  how  calmly  Amie 
died.  She  was  so  young  and  beautiful !  I  al- 
ways pray  that  I  may  die  as  she  did.  I  do  not 
fear  death  as  I  did  before  she  was  taken  from 
us.  But,  O,  — this  pain, —  this  cruel  pain  !  —  it 


JACQUELINE.  67 

seems  to  draw  my  mind  back  from  heaven. 
When  it  leaves  me,  I  shah1  die  in  peace." 

"  My  poor  child  !     God's  holy  will  be  done  !  " 

The  invalid  soon  sank  into  a  quiet  slumber. 
The  excitement  was  over,  and  exhausted  nature 
sought  relief  in  sleep. 

The  persons  between  whom  this  scene  passed 
were  a  widow  and  her  sick  daughter,  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Tours.  They  had  left  the 
banks  of  the  Loire  to  consult  the  more  expe- 
rienced physicians  of  the  metropolis,  and  had 
been  directed  to  the  maison  de  sante  at  Au- 
teuil  for  the  benefit  of  the  pure  air.  But  all 
in  vain.  The  health  of  the  uncomplaining  pa- 
tient grew  worse  and  worse,  and  it  soon  be- 
came evident  that  the  closing  scene  was  drawing 
near. 

Of  this  Jacqueline  herself  seemed  conscious  ; 
and  towards  evening  she  expressed  a  wish  to 
receive  the  last  sacraments  of  the  church.  A 
priest  was  sent  for  ;  and  ere  long  the  tinkling 
of  a  little  bell  in  the  street  announced  his  ap- 
proach. He  bore  in  his  hand  a  silver  chalice 
containing  the  consecrated  wafer,  and  a  small 
vessel  filled  with  the  holy  oil  of  the  extreme 
unction  hung  from  his  neck.  Before  him  walked 


68  JACQUELINE. 

a  boy  carrying  a  little  bell,  whose  sound  an- 
nounced the  passing  of  these  symbols  of  the 
Catholic  faith.  In  the  rear,  a  few  of  the  villa- 
gers, bearing  lighted  wax  tapers,  formed  a  short 
and  melancholy  procession.  They  soon  entered 
the  sick-chamber,  and  the  glimmer  of  the  tapers 
mingled  with  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun 
that  shot  his  farewell  rays  through  the  open  win- 
dow. The  vessel  of  oil  and  the  silver  chalice 
were  placed  upon  the  table  in  front  of  a  crucifix 
that  hung  upon  the  wall,  and  all  present,  except- 
ing the  priest,  threw  themselves  upon  their  knees. 
The  priest  then  approached  the  bed  of  the  dy- 
ing girl,  and  said,  in  a  slow  and  solemn  tone,  — 

"  The  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  has 
passed  thy  threshold.  Is  thy  spirit  ready  to  re- 
ceive him  ?  " 

"It  is,  father." 

"  Hast  thou  confessed  thy  sins  ?  " 

"  Holy  father,  no." 

"  Confess  thyself,  then,  that  thy  sins  may  be 
forgiven,  and  thy  name  recorded  in  the  book 
of  life." 

And,  turning  to  the  kneeling  crowd  around, 
he  waved  his  hand  for  them  to  retire,  and  was 
left  alone  with  the  sick  girl.  He  seated  him- 


JACQUELINE.  69 

self  beside  her  pillow,  and  the  subdued  whisper 
of  the  confession  mingled  with  the  murmur  of 
the  evening  air,  which  lifted  the  heavy  folds 
of  the  curtains,  and  stole  in  upon  the  holy  scene. 
Poor  Jacqueline  had  few  sins  to  confess,  —  a 
secret  thought  or  two  towards  the  pleasures  and 
delights  of  the  world,  —  a  wish  to  live,  unut- 
tered,  but  which,  to  the  eye  of  her  self-accusing 
spirit,  seemed  to  resist  the  wise  providence  of 
God  ;  —  no  more.  The  confession  of  a  meek 
and  lowly  heart  is  soon  made.  The  door  was 
again  opened  ;  the  attendants  entered,  and  knelt 
around  the  bed,  and  the  priest  proceeded,  — 

"  And  now  prepare  thyself  to  receive  with 
contrite  heart  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord  and 
Redeemer.  Dost  thou  believe  that  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ  was  conceived  by  the  Holy  Spirit, 
and  born  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ?  " 

"I  believe." 

And  all  present  joined  in  the  solemn  re- 
sponse,— 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Father  is  God, 
that  the  Son  is  God,  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit 
is  God,  — three  persons  and  one  God  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 


70  JACQUELINE. 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Son  is  seated 
on  the  right  hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high,  whence 
he  shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and  the  dead  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  by  the  holy  sacra- 
ments of  the  church  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee, 
and  that  thus  thou  art  made  worthy  of  eternal 
life  ?  » 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  pardon,  with  all  thy  heart,  all  who 
have  offended  thee  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

"  I  pardon  them." 

"  And  dost  thou  ask  pardon  of  God  and  thy 
neighbour  for  all  offences  thou  hast  committed 
against  them,  either  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

"  I  do  !  " 

"  Then  repeat  after  me,  —  O  Lord  Jesus,  I 
am  not  worthy^  nor  do  I  merit,  that  thy  divine 
majesty  should  enter  this  poor  tenement  of  clay  ; 
but,  according  to  thy  holy  promises,  be  my  sins 
forgiven,  and  my  soul  washed  white  from  all 
transgression." 

Then,  taking  a  consecrated  wafer  from  the 
vase,  he  placed  it  between  the  lips  of  the  dying 
girl,  and,  while  the  assistant  sounded  the  little 
silver  bell,  said,  — 


JACQUELINE.  71 

"  Corpus  Domini  nostri  Jesu  Christi  custodial 
animam  tuam  in  vitam  eternam.^ 

And  the  kneeling  crowd  smote  their  breasts 
and  responded  in  one  solemn  voice, — 

"  Amen  !  " 

The  priest  then  took  a  little  golden  rod,  and, 
dipping  it  in  holy  oil,  anointed  the  invalid  upon 
the  hands,  feet,  and  breast,  in  the  form  of  the 
cross.  When  these  ceremonies  were  completed, 
the  priest  and  his  attendants  retired,  leaving  the 
mother  alone  with  her  dying  child,  who,  from 
the  exhaustion  caused  by  the  preceding  scene, 
sank  into  a  deathlike  sleep. 

"  Between  two  worlds  life  hovered  like  a  gtar, 
'Twixt  night  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge." 

The  long  twilight  of  the  summer  evening  stole 
on  ;  the  shadows  deepened  without,  and  the  night- 
lamp  glimmered  feebly  in  the  sick-chamber  ;  but 
still  she  slept.  She  was  lying  with  her  hands 
clasped  upon  her  breast,  —  her  pallid  cheek  rest- 
ing upon  the  pillow,  and  Ijet  bloodless  lips  apart, 
but  motionless  and  silent  as  the  sleep  of  death. 
Not  a  breath  interrupted  the  silence  of  her  slum- 
ber. Not  a  movement  of  the  heavy  and  sunk- 
en eyelid,  not  a  trembling  of  the  lip,  not  a 
shadow  on  the  marble  brow,  told  when  the  spirit 


72  JACQUELINE. 

took  its  flight.     It  passed  to  a  better  world  than 
this :  — 

"  There  's  a  perpetual  spring,  —  perpetual  youth ; 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  nor  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 


SEXAGENARIAN. 


THERE  he  goes,  in  his  long  russet  surtout. 
sweepnc  down  jr«**™y  gravel-walk7  bpi>p>th  die 
trees,  Eke  a  jeDow  leaf  in  autumn  wafted  along 
by  a  fitful  gust  of  wind.  Now  he  pauses,  — 


and  now  rustles  and  brashes  onward  again.     He 

a  pbch  of  snuff  between  his  fere- 
finger  and  his  dumb,  ever  and 
on  die  cover  of  hb  box,  by  way  of 
sis,  with  a  sound  Eke  die  tap  of  a  woodpecker. 
He  always  takes  a  mornmf;  walk  in  die  garden, 
—  in  fact,  I  may  saj  he  passes  die  greater  part 
of  die  day  there,  either  straffing  up  and  down 
die  gravei- wafts,  or  sitting  on  a  rustic  bench  in 


74  THE       SEXAGENARIAN. 

one  of  the  leafy  arbours.  He  always  wears  that 
same  dress,  too  ;  a  bell-crowned  hat,  a  frilled 
bosom,  and  white  dimity  vest,  soiled  with  snuff,  — 
light  nankeen  breeches,  and,  over  ah1,  that  long 
and  flowing  surtout  of  russet-brown  Circassian, 
hanging  in  wrinkles  round  his  slender  body,  and 
toying  with  his  thin,  rakish  legs.  Such  is  his 
constant  garb,  morning  and  evening  ;  and  it  gives 
him  a  cool  and  breezy  look,  even  in  the  heat  of 
a  noonday  in  August. 

The  personage  sketched  in  the  preceding  par- 
agraph is  Monsieur  D'Argentville,  a  sexagenarian, 
with  whom  I  became  acquainted  during  my  res- 
idence at  the  maison  de  sante  of  Auteuil.  I 
found  him  there,  and  left  him  there.  Nobody 
knew  when  he  came,  —  he  had  been  there  from 
time  immemorial ;  nor  when  he  was  going  away, 
—  for  he  himself  did  not  know  ;  nor  what  ailed 
him,  —  for  though  he  was  always  complaining,  yet 
he  grew  neither  better  nor  worse,  never  con- 
sulted the  physician,  and  ate  voraciously  three 
times  a  day.  At  table  he  was  rather  peevish, 
troubled  his  neighbours  with  his  elbows,  and 
uttered  the  monosyllable  pish !  rather  oftener  than 
good-breeding  and  a  due  deference  to  the  opin- 
ions of  others  seemed  to  justify.  As  soon  as  he 


THE      SEXAGENARIAN.  75 


sealed  himself  at  table,  he  breathed  into  Ms 
bier,  and  wiped  it  out  with  a  napkin  ;  then  wiped 
bis  plate,  bis  spoon,  bis  knife  and  fork  in  succes- 
sion, and  each  with  great  care.  After  this  he 
placed  die  napkin  under  his  chin  ;  and,  these  prep- 
arations being  completed,  gave  full  swing  to 
an  appetite  which  was  not  inappropriately  denom- 
inated, by  one  of  our  guests,  "tine  /aim  ca- 


Tbe  old  gentleman's  weak  side  was  an  affecta- 
tion of  youth  and  gallantry.  Though  "  written 
down  old,  with  all  the  characters  of  age,"  yet 
at  times  he  seemed  to  think  himself  in  the  hey- 
day of  fife  ;  and  the  assiduous  court  he  paid  to  a 
fair  countess,  who  was  passing  the  summer  at 
the  maison  dc  saute,  was  the  source  of  no  little 
merriment  to  all  but  himself.  He  loved,  too,  to 
recall  the  golden  age  of  his  amours ;  and  would 
discourse  with  prolix  eloquence,  and  a  faint 
twinkle  in  his  watery  eye,  of  his  bonnes  fortunes 
in  times  of  old,  and  the  rigors  that  many  a  fair 
dame  had  suffered  on  his  account.  Indeed,  his 
chief  pride  seemed  to  be  to  make  his  hearers 
believe  that  be  bad  been  a  dangerous  man  m  bis 
youth,  and  was  not  yet  quite  safe. 

As  I  also  was  a  peripatetic  of  the  garden,  we 


76  THE      SEXAGENARIAN. 

encountered  each  other  at  every  turn.  At  first 
our  conversation  was  limited  to  the  usual  saluta- 
tions of  the  day  ;  but  ere  long  our  casual  acquaint- 
ance ripened  into  a  kind  of  intimacy.  Step  by 
step  I  won  my  way,  —  first  into  his  society,  — 
then  into  his  snuff-box,  —  and  then  into  his  heart. 
He  was  a  great  talker,  and  he  found  in  me  what 
he  found  in  no  other  inmate  of  the  house,  —  a 
good  listener,  who  never  interrupted  his  long  sto- 
ries, nor  contradicted  his  opinions.  So  he  talked 
down  one  alley  and  up  another,  —  from  breakfast 
till  dinner,  —  from  dinner  till  midnight,  —  at  all 
times  and  in  all  places,  when  he  could  catch 
me  by  the  button,  till  at  last  he  had  confided  to 
my  ear  all  the  important  and  unimportant  events 
of  a  life  of  sixty  years. 

Monsieur  D'Argentville  was  a  shoot  from  a 
wealthy  family  of  Nantes.  Just  before  the  Rev- 
olution, he  went  up  to  Paris  to  study  law  at  the 
University,  and,  like  many  other  wealthy  schol- 
ars of  his  age,  was  soon  involved  in  the  intrigues 
and  dissipation  of  the  metropolis.  He  first  es- 
tablished himself  in  the  Rue  de  1'Universite  ; 
but  a  roguish  pair  of  eyes  at  an  opposite  win- 
dow soon  drove  from  the  field  such  heavy  tac- 
ticians as  Hugues  Doneau  and  Gui  Coquille. 


THE     SEXAGENARIAN.  77 

A  flirtation  was  commenced  in  due  form  ;  and 
a  flag  of  truce,  offering  to  capitulate,  was  sent 
in  the  shape  of  a  billet-doux.  In  the  mean  time 
he  regularly  amused  his  leisure  hours  by  blowing 
kisses  across  the  street  with  an  old  pair  of  bel- 
lows. One  afternoon,  as  he  was  occupied  in 
this  way,  a  tall  gentleman  with  whiskers  stepped 
into  the  room,  just  as  he  had  charged  the  bel- 
lows to  the  muzzle.  He  muttered  something 
about  an  explanation, — bis  sister, — marriage, — 
and  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  !  Perhaps 
there  is  no  situation  in  life  so  awkward  to  a  man 
of  real  sensibility  as  that  of  being  awed  into  mat- 
rimony or  a  duel  by  the  whiskers  of  a  tall  broth- 
er. There  was  but  one  alternative ;  and  the 
next  morning  a  placard  at  the  window  of  the 
Bachelor  of  Love,  with  the  words  "  Furnished 
Apartment  to  let,"  showed  that  the  former  oc- 
cupant had  found  it  convenient  to  change  lodg- 
ings. 

He  next  appeared  in  the  Chaussee-d'Antin, 
where  he  assiduously  prepared  himself  for  fu- 
ture exigencies  by  a  course  of  daily  lessons  in 
the  use  of  the  small-sword.  He  soon  after 
quarrelled  with  his  best  friend,  about  a  little  ac- 
tress on  the  Boulevard,  and  had  the  satisfaction 


78  THE    SEXAGENARIAN. 

of  being  jilted,  and  then  run  through  the  body 
at  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  This  gave  him  new 
eclat  in  the  fashionable  world,  and  consequently 
he  pursued  pleasure  with  a  keener  relish  than 
ever.  He  next  had  the  grande  passion,  and 
narrowly  escaped  marrying  an  heiress  of  great 
expectations,  and  a  countless  number  of  cha- 
teaux. Just  before  the  catastrophe,  however, 
he  had  the  good  fortune  to  discover  that  the 
lady's  expectations  were  limited  to  his  own  pock- 
et, and  that,  as  for  her  chateaux,  they  were  all 
Chateaux  en  Espagne. 

About  this  time  his  father  died  ;  and  the  hope- 
ful son  was  hardly  well  established  in  his  inher- 
itance, when  the  Revolution  broke  out.  Unfor- 
tunately, he  was  a  firm  upholder  of  the  divine 
right  of  kings,  and  had  the  honor  of  being  among 
the  first  of  the  proscribed.  He  narrowly  es- 
caped the  guillotine  by  jumping  on  board  a  ves- 
sel bound  for  America,  and  arrived  at  Boston 
with  only  a  few  francs  in  his  pocket ;  but,  as  he 
knew  how  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstan- 
ces, he  continued  to  live  by  teaching  fencing 
and  French,  and  keeping  a  dancing-school  and 
a  milliner. 

At  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  he  returned 


THE    SEXAGENARIAN.  79 

to  France ;  and  from  that  time  to  the  day  of 
our  acquaintance  had  been  engaged  in  a  series 
of  vexatious  lawsuits,  in  the  hope  of  recovering 
a  portion  of  his  property,  which  had  been  in- 
trusted to  a  friend  for  safe  keeping  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  Revolution.  His  friend,  bow- 
ever,  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  transaction, 
and  the  assignment  was  very  difficult  to  prove. 
Twelve  years  of  unsuccessful  litigation  had  com- 
pletely soured  the  old  gentleman's  temper,  and 
made  him  peevish  and  misanthropic  ;  and  he  bad 
come  to  Auteuil  merely  to  escape  tbe  noise  of 
the  city,  and  to  brace  his  shattered  nerves  with 
pure  air  and  quiet  amusements.  There  he  idled 
tbe  time  away,  sauntering  about  the  garden  of 
the  maiso*  de  saute,  talking  to  himself  when 
be  could  get  no  other  listener,  and  occasionally 
reinforcing  bis  misanthropy  with  a  dose  of  the 
Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  or  a  visit  to  tbe 
scene  of  his  duel  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Poor  Monsieur  d'Argentville  !  What  a  mis- 
erable life  he  led,  —  or  rather  dragged  on,  from 
day  to  day  !  A  petulant,  broken-down  old  man, 
who  had  outlived  his  fortune,  and  his  friends, 
and  his  hopes,  —  yea,  every  thing  but  tbe  sting 
of  bad  passions  and  the  recollection  of  a  life 


80  THE    SEXAGENARIAN. 

ill-spent !  Whether  he  still  walks  the  earth  or 
slumbers  in  its  bosom,  I  know  not ;  but  a  lively 
recollection  of  him  will  always  mingle  with  my 
reminiscences  of  Auteuil. 


PERE  LA  CHAISE. 


Our  fathers  find  their  cram  in  oar  short  memories,  and 
sadly  tell  us  how  we  mar  be  buried  in  oar  sarriYors. 

OMiTkm  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  most  be 
content  to  be  as  though  they  bad  not  been,  — to  be  found  in 
the  register  of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man. 

Sot  THOMAS  BROWS'S  URX   BCKIAL. 


THE  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise  is  the  West- 
minster Abbey  of  Paris.  Both  are  the  dwefl- 
ings  of  the  dead  ;  but  in  one  they  repose  in 
green  alleys  and  beneath  the  open  sky,  —  in  the 
other  their  resting-place  is  in  the  shadowy  aisle, 
and  beneath  the  dim  arches  of  an  ancient  abbey. 
One  is  a  temple  of  nature  ;  the  other  a  temple 
of  art.  In  one,  the  soft  melancholy  of  the  scene 
is  rendered  still  more  touching  by  the  warble  of 
birds  and  the  shade  of  trees,  and  the  grave  re- 
ceives the  gentle  visit  of  the  sunshine  and  the 
shower  :  in  the  other,  no  sound  but  the  passing 
footfall  breaks  the  silence  of  the  place  ;  the  twi- 
light steals  in  through  high  and  dusky  windows  ; 
and  the  damps  of  the  gloomy  vault  lie  heavy  on 
6 


82  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

the  heart,  and  leave  their  stain  upon  the  moulder- 
ing tracery  of  the  tomb. 

Pere  la  Chaise  stands  just  beyond  the  Barriere 
d'Aulney,  on  a  hill-side,  looking  towards  the 
city.  Numerous  gravel-walks,  winding  through 
shady  avenues  and  between  marble  monuments, 
lead  up  from  the  principal  entrance  to  a  chapel 
on  the  summit.  There  is  hardly  a  grave  that 
has  not  its  little  inclosure  planted  with  shrub- 
bery ;  and  a  thick  mass  of  foliage  half  conceals 
each  funeral  stone.  The  sighing  of  the  wind, 
as  the  branches  rise  and  fall  upon  it,  —  the  oc- 
casional note  of  a  bird  among  the  trees,  and  the 
shifting  of  light  and  shade  upon  the  tombs  be- 
neath, have  a  soothing  effect  upon  the  mind  ;  and 
I  doubt  whether  any  one  can  enter  that  inclosure, 
where  repose  the  dust  and  ashes  of  so  many  great 
and  good  men,  without  feeling  the  religion  of 
the  place  steal  over  him,  and  seeing  something 
of  the  dark  and  gloomy  expression  pass  off  from 
the  stern  countenance  of  death. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  bright  summer  after- 
noon that  I  visited  this  celebrated  spot  for  the 
first  time.  The  first  object  that  arrested  my  at- 
tention, on  entering,  was  a  monument  in  the  form 
of  a  small  Gothic  chapel,  which  stands  near  the 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  83 

entrance,  in  the  avenue  leading  to  the  right  hand. 
On  the  marble  coach  within  are  stretched  two 
figures,  carved  in  stone  and  dressed  in  the  an- 
tique garb  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  is  the  tomb 
of  Abefatrd  and  Heloise.  The  history  of  these 
unfortunate  lovers  is  too  wefl  known  to  need 
recapitulation;  but  perhaps  it  is  not  so  well 
known  how  often  their  ashes  were  disturbed  ia 
the  slumber  of  the  grave.  Abelard  died  in  the 
monastery  of  Saint  Marcel,  and  was  buried  in 
the  vaults  of  the  church.  His  body  was  after- 
ward removed  to  the  convent  of  the  Paraclet, 
at  the  request  of  Heloise,  and  at  her  death  her 
body  was  deposited  in  the  same  tomb.  Three 
centuries  they  reposed  together  ;  after  which  they 
were  separated  to  different  sides  of  the  church, 
to  calm  the  delicate  scruples  of  the  lady-abbess 
of  the  convent.  More  than  a  century  afterward, 
they  were  again  united  in  the  same  tomb  ;  and 
when  at  length  the  Paraclet  was  destroyed,  their 
mouldering  remains  were  transported  to  die 
church  of  Nogent-sur-Seine.  They  were  next 
deposited  in  an  ancient  cloister  at  Paris  ;  and 
now  repose  near  the  gateway  of  the  cemetery 
of  Pere  la  Chaise.  What  a  singular  destiny  was 
theirs !  that,  after  a  life  of  such  passionate  and  dis- 


84  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

astrous  love,  —  such  sorrows,  and  tears,  and  pen- 
itence, —  their  very  dust  should  not  be  suffered 
to  rest  quietly  in  the  grave  !  —  that  their  death 
should  so  much  resemble  their  life  in  its  changes 
and  vicissitudes,  its  partings  and  its  meetings, 
its  inquietudes  and  its  persecutions  !  —  that  mis- 
taken zeal  should  follow  them  down  to  the  very 
tomb,  —  as  if  earthly  passion  could  glimmer, 
like  a  funeral  lamp,  amid  the  damps  of  the  char- 
nel-house, and  "  even  in  their  ashes  burn  their 
wonted  fires  !  " 

As  I  gazed  on  the  sculptured  forms  before 
me,  and  the  little  chapel,  whose  Gothic  roof 
seemed  to  protect  their  marble  sleep,  my  busy 
memory  swung  back  the  dark  portals  of  the 
past,  and  the  picture  of  their  sad  and  eventful 
lives  came  up  before  me  in  the  gloomy  distance. 
What  a  lesson  for  those  who  are  endowed  with 
the  fatal  gift  of  genius  !  It  would  seem,  indeed, 
that  He  who  "  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn 
lamb "  tempers  also  his  chastisements  to  the 
errors  and  infirmities  of  a  weak  and  simple 
mind,  —  while  the  transgressions  of  him  upon 
whose  nature  are  more  strongly  marked  the  in- 
tellectual attributes  of  the  Deity  are  followed, 
even  upon  earth,  by  severer  tokens  of  the  di- 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  85 

vine  displeasure.  He  who  sins  in  the  darkness 
of  a  benighted  intellect  sees  not  so  clearly,  through 
the  shadows  that  surround  him,  the  countenance 
of  an  offended  God  ;  but  he  who  sins  in  the 
broad  noonday  of  a  clear  and  radiant  mind, 
when  at  length  the  delirium  of  sensual  passion 
has  subsided,  and  the  cloud  flits  away  from  be- 
fore the  sun,  trembles  beneath  the  searching  eye 
of  that  accusing  power  which  is  strong  in  the 
strength  of  a  godlike  intellect.  Thus  the  mind 
and  the  heart  are  closely  linked  together,  and 
the  errors  of  genius  bear  with  them  their  own 
chastisement,  even  upon  earth.  The  history 
of  Abelard  and  Heloise  is  an  illustration  of  this 
truth.  But  at  length  they  sleep  well.  Their 
lives  are  like  a  tale  that  is  told  ;  their  errors 
are  "  folded  up  like  a  book  "  ;  and  what  mortal 
hand  shall  break  the  seal  that  death  has  set  upon 
them? 

Leaving  this  interesting  tomb  behind  me,  I 
took  a  pathway  to  the  left,  which  conducted  me 
up  the  hill-side.  I  soon  found  myself  in  the 
deep  shade  of  heavy  foliage,  where  the  branches 
of  the  yew  and  willow  mingled,  interwoven  with 
the  tendrils  and  blossoms  of  the  honeysuckle. 
I  now  stood  hi  the  most  populous  part  of  this 


86  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

city  of  tombs.  Every  step  awakened  a  new 
train  of  thrilling  recollections  ;  for  at  every  step 
my  eye  caught  the  name  of  some  one  whose 
glory  had  exalted  the  character  of  his  native 
land,  and  resounded  across  the  waters  of  the 
Atlantic.  Philosophers,  historians,  musicians, 
warriors,  and  poets  slept  side  by  side  around 
me  ;  some  beneath  the  gorgeous  monument,  and 
some  beneath  the  simple  headstone.  But  the 
political  intrigue,  the  dream  of  science,  the  his- 
torical research,  the  ravishing  harmony  of  sound, 
the  tried  courage,  the  inspiration  of  the  lyre,  — 
where  are  they  ?  With  the  living,  and  not  with 
the  dead  !  The  right  hand  has  lost  its  cunning 
in  the  grave  ;  but  the  soul,  whose  high  volitions 
it  obeyed,  still  lives  to  reproduce  itself  in  ages 
yet  to  come. 

Among  these  graves  of  genius  I  observed  here 
and  there  a  splendid  monument,  which  had  been 
raised  by  the  pride  of  family  over  the  dust  of 
men  who  could  lay  no  claim  either  to  the  grat- 
itude or  remembrance  of  posterity.  Their  pres- 
ence seemed  like  an  intrusion  into  the  sanctuary 
of  genius.  What  had  wealth  to  do  there  ?  Why 
should  it  crowd  the  dust  of  the  great  ?  That 
was  no  thoroughfare  of  business,  —  no  mart  of 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  87 

gain  !  There  were  no  costly  banquets  there  ; 
no  silken  garments,  nor  gaudy  liveries,  nor  ob- 
sequious attendants  !  "  What  servants,"  says 
Jeremy  Taylor,  ';  shall  we  have  to  wait  upon 
us  in  the  grave  ?  what  friends  to  visit  us  ? 
what  officious  people  to  cleanse  away  the  moist 
and  unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon  our  faces 
from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults,  which  are 
the  longest  weepers  for  our  funerals  ?  "  Material 
wealth  gives  a  factitious  superiority  to  the  living, 
but  the  treasures  of  intellect  give  a  real  supe- 
riority to  the  dead  ;  and  the  rich  man,  who  would 
not  deign  to  walk  the  street  with  the  starving 
and  penniless  man  of  genius,  deems  it  an  honor, 
when  death  has  redeemed  the  fame  of  the  neg- 
lected, to  have  his  own  ashes  laid  beside  him, 
and  to  claim  with  him  the  silent  companionship 
of  the  grave. 

I  continued  my  walk  through  the  numerous 
winding  paths,  as  chance  or  curiosity  directed 
me.  Now  I  was  lost  in  a  little  green  hollow, 
overhung  with  thick-leaved  shrubbery,  and  then 
came  out  upon  an  elevation,  from  which,  through 
an  opening  in  the  trees,  the  eye  caught  glimpses 
of  the  city,  and  the  little  esplanade,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  where  the  poor  lie  buried.  There 


PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

poverty  hires  its  grave,  and  takes  but  a  short 
lease  of  the  narrow  house.  At  the  end  of  a 
few  months,  or  at  most  of  a  few  years,  the  ten- 
ant is  dislodged  to  give  place  to  another,  and 
he  in  turn  to  a  third.  "  Who,"  says  Sir  Thom- 
as Browne,  "  knows  the  fate  of  his  bones,  or 
how  often  he  is  to  be  buried  ?  Who  hath  the 
oracle  of  his  ashes,  or  whither  they  are  to  be 
scattered  ?  " 

Yet,  even  in  that  neglected  corner,  the  hand 
of  affection  had  been  busy  in  decorating  the 
hired  house.  Most  of  the  graves  were  surround- 
ed with  a  slight  wooden  paling,  to  secure  them 
from  the  passing  footstep  ;  there  was  hardly 
one  so  deserted  as  not  to  be  marked  with  its 
little  wooden  cross,  and  decorated  with  a  gar- 
land of  flowers  ;  and  here  and  there  I  could 
perceive  a  solitary  mourner,  clothed  in  black, 
stooping  to  plant  a  shrub  on  the  grave,  or  sitting 
in  motionless  sorrow  beside  it. 

As  I  passed  on,  amid  the  shadowy  avenues 
of  the  cemetery,  I  could  not  help  comparing 
my  own  impressions  with  those  which  others  have 
felt  when  walking  alone  among  the  dwellings 
of  the  dead.  Are,  then,  the  sculptured  urn  and 
storied  monument  nothing  more  than  symbols 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  59 

of  family  pride  ?  Is  all  I  see  around  me  a  me- 
moral  of  the  living  more  than  of  the  dead,  —  an 
empty  show  of  sorrow,  which  thus  vaunts  itself 
in  mournful  pageant  and  funeral  parade  ?  Is 
it  indeed  true,  as  some  have  said,  that  the  simple 
wild-flower,  which  springs  spontaneously  upon 
the  grave,  and  the  rose,  which  the  hand  of  affec- 
tion plants  there,  are  fitter  objects  wherewith 
to  adorn  the  narrow  house  ?  No  !  I  feel  that 
it  is  not  so !  Let  the  good  and  the  great  be 
honored  even  in  the  grave.  Let  the  sculptured 
marble  direct  our  footsteps  to  the  scene  of  their 
long  sleep  ;  let  the  chiselled  epitaph  repeat  their 
names,  and  tell  us  where  repose  the  nobly  good 
and  wise  !  It  is  not  true  that  all  are  equal  in 
the  grave.  There  is  no  equality  even  there. 
The  mere  handful  of  dust  and  ashes,  — the  mere 
distinction  of  prince  and  beggar,  —  of  a  rich 
winding-sheet  and  a  shroudless  burial,  —  of  a  sol- 
itary grave  and  a  family  vault, — were  this  all, — 
then,  indeed,  it  would  be  true  mat  death  is  a 
common  leveller.  Such  paltry  distinctions  as 
those  of  wealth  and  poverty  are  soon  levelled 
by  the  spade  and  mattock;  the  damp  bream 
of  the  grave  blots  them  out  for  ever.  But  there 
are  other  distinctions  which  even  the  mace  of 


90  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

death  connot  level  or  obliterate.  Can  it  break 
down  the  distinction  of  virtue  and  vice  ?  Can 
it  confound  the  good  with  the  bad  ?  the  noble 
with  the  base  ?  all  that  is  truly  great,  and  pure, 
and  godlike,  with  all  that  is  scorned,  and  sinful, 
and  degraded  ?  No  !  Then  death  is  not  a 
common  leveller  !  Are  all  alike  beloved  in  death 
and  honored  in  their  burial  ?  Is  that  ground  holy 
where  the  bloody  hand  of  the  murderer  sleeps 
from  crime  ?  Does  every  grave  awaken  the 
same  emotions  in  our  hearts  ?  and  do  the  foot- 
steps of  the  stranger  pause  as  long  beside  each 
funeral-stone  ?  No  !  Then  all  are  not  equal 
in  the  grave  !  And  as  long  as  the  good  and 
evil  deeds  of  men  live  after  them,  so  long  will 
there  be  distinctions  even  in  the  grave.  The 
superiority  of  one  over  another  is  in  the  nobler 
and  better  emotions  which  it  excites  ;  in  its  more 
fervent  admonitions  to  virtue  ;  in  the  livelier 
recollection  which  it  awakens  of  the  good  and 
the  great,  whose  bodies  are  crumbling  to  dust 
beneath  our  feet  ! 

If,  then,  there  are  distinctions  in  the  grave, 
surely  it  is  not  unwise  to  designate  them  by  the 
external  marks  of  honor.  These  outward  ap- 
pliances and  memorials  of  respect,  —  the  mourn- 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  91 

fill  am,  —  the  sculptured  bast,  —  the  epitaph 
eloquent  in  praise,  —  cannot  indeed  create  these 
distinctions,  hut  they  serve  to  mark  them.  It 
is  only  when  pride  or  wealth  builds  them  to  honor 
the  slave  of  mammon  or  the  slave  of  appetite, 
when  the  voice  from  the  grave  rebukes  the  false 
and  pompous  epitaph,  and  the  dust  and  ashes 
of  the  tomb  seem  struggling  to  maintain  the  su- 
periority of  mere  worldly  rank,  and  to  carry 
into  the  grave  the  bawbles  of  earthly  vanity.  — 
it  is  then,  and  then  only,  that  we  feel  bow  ut- 
terly worthless  are  all  the  devices  of  sculpture, 
and  the  empty  pomp  of  monumental  brass  ! 

After  rambling  leisurely  about  for  some  time, 
reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  various  monuments 
which  attracted  my  curiosity,  and  giving  way 
to  the  different  reflections  they  suggested,  I  sat 
down  to  rest  myself  on  a  sunken  tombstone. 
A  winding  gravel-walk,  overshaded  by  an  avenue 
of  trees,  and  lined  on  both  sides  with  richly 
sculptured  monuments,  had  gradually  conducted 
me  to  the  summit  of  the  KB,  upon  whose  slope 
the  cemetery  stands.  Beneath  me  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  dim-discovered  through  the  misty  and 
smoky  atmosphere  of  evening,  rose  the  countless 
roofs  and  spires  of  the  chy.  Beyond,  throwing 


92  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

his  level  rays  athwart  the  dusky  landscape,  sank 
the  broad  red  sun.  The  distant  murmur  of  the 
city  rose  upon  my  ear  ;  and  the  toll  of  the  even- 
ing bell  came  up,  mingled  with  the  rattle  of  the 
paved  street  and  the  confused  sounds  of  labor. 
What  an  hour  for  meditation  !  What  a  con- 
trast between  the  metropolis  of  the  living  and 
the  metropolis  of  the  dead  !  I  could  not  help 
calling  to  my  mind  that  allegory  of  mortality, 
written  by  a  hand  which  has  been  many  a  long 
year  cold  :  — 

"  Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  man  upon  mould, 
Like  as  earth  upon  earth  never  go  should, 
Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  glistening  gold, 
And  yet  shall  earth  unto  earth  rather  than  he  would. 

"  Lo,  earth  on  earth,  consider  thou  may, 
How  earth  cometh  to  earth  naked  alway, 
Why  shall  earth  upon  earth  go  stout  or  gay, 
Since  earth  out  of  earth  shall  pass  in  poor  array."  * 

*  I  subjoin  this  relic  of  old  English  verse  entire,  and  in  its 
antiquated  language,  for  those  of  my  readers  who  may  have 
an  antiquarian  taste.  It  is  copied  from  a  book  whose  title 
I  have  forgotten,  and  of  which  I  have  but  a  single  leaf,  con- 
taining the  poem.  In  describing  the  antiquities  of  the  church 
of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  the  writer  gives  the  following  ac- 
count of  a  very  old  painting  upon  the  wall,  and  of  the  poem 
which  served  as  its  motto.  The  painting  is  no  longer  visible, 
having  been  effaced  in  repairing  the  church. 


PERE    LA    CHAISE.  93 

Before  I  left  the  graveyard  the  shades  of  even- 
ing had  fallen,  and  the  objects  around  me  grown 

"  Against  the  west  wall  of  the  nave,  on  the  south  side 
of  the  arch,  was  painted  the  martyrdom  of  Thomas-a-Becket, 
while  kneeling  at  the  altar  of  St.  Benedict  in  Canterbury 
cathedral ;  below  this  was  the  figure  of  an  angel,  probably 
St.  Michael,  supporting  a  long  scroll,  upon  which  were  seven 
stanzas  in  old  English,  being  an  allegory  of  mortality  :  — 

u  Erthe  oute  of  Erthe  ys  wondurly  wroght 
Erth  hath  gotyn  uppon  erth  a  dygnyte  of  ooght 
Erth  ypon  erth  hath  sett  all  hys  thowht 
How  erth  apon  erth  may  be  hey  browght 

"  Erth  apon  erth  wold  be  a  kyng 
But  how  that  erth  gott  to  erth  he  thyngkys  nothyng 
When  erth  byddys  erth  hys  rentys  whom  bryng 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  hard  ptyng 

M  Erth  apon  erth  wynnys  castellvs  and  towrys 
Then  seth  erth  unto  erth  thy*  ys  all  owrys 
When  erth  apon  erth  hath  bylde  hys  bowrys 
Then  schall  erth  for  erth  sulfur  many  hard  schowrys 

'•  Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  man  apon  mowld         , 
Lyke  as  erth  apon  erth  never  goo  schold 
Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  gelsteryng  gold 
And  yet  schall  erth  unto  erth  rather  than  he  wold 

'•  Why  that  erth  lov'eth  erth  wondur  me  thynke 
Or  why  that  erth  wold  for  erth  other  swett  or  swynke 
When  erth  apon  erth  ys  broght  wt.yn  the  brynke 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  have  a  fowll  stynke 


94  PERE    LA    CHAISE. 

dim  and  indistinct.  As  I  passed  the  gateway,  I 
turned  to  take  a  parting  look.  I  could  distin- 
guish only  the  chapel  on  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
and  here  and  there  a  lofty  obelisk  of  snow-white 
marble,  rising  from  the  black  and  heavy  mass 
of  foliage  around,  and  pointing  upward  to  the 
gleam  of  the  departed  sun,  that  still  lingered  in 
the  sky,  and  mingled  with  the  soft  starlight  of 
a  summer  evening. 

"  Lo  erth  on  crth  consedur  thow  may 
How  erth  comyth  to  erth  nakyd  all  way 
Why  schall  erth  apon  erth  goo  stowte  or  gay 
Seth  erth  owt  of  erth  schall  passe  yn  poor  aray 

v'  I  counsill  erth  apon  erth  that  ys  wondurly  wrogt 
The  whyl  yt.  erth  ys  apon  erth  to  torne  hys  thowht 
And  pray  to  god  upon  erth  yt.  all  erth  wroght 
That  all  crystyn  soullys  to  ye.  blys  may  be  broght 

"  Beneath  were  two  men,  holding  a  scroll  over  a  body 
wrapped  in  a  winding-sheet,  and  covered  with  some  emblems 
of  mortality,"  &c. 


VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 


Je  neeoaeoB  qu  nme  «aniere  de 
d'auer  4  eheral;  ceA  d'aller  a  pied.    On  put  a  mi 
ment,  on  s'an&e  a  sa  rotate,  on  &h  tut  et  a  pea  d'exer- 
:-  .'   v,  - 

oo  >e  rent  qa'aniTer,  OB  pent  coarir  en  chake  de 
U  &at  aller  a    ied. 


Lv  die  beautiful  month  of  October,  I  made  a 
foot  excursion  along  the  banks  of  the  Loire, 
from  Orleans  to  Tours.  This  luxuriant  region 
is  justhr  called  the  garden  of  France.  From 
Orleans  to  Blois,  the  whole  valley  of  the  Loire 
is  one  continued  Tinerard.  The  bright  green 
foliage  of  the  vine  spreads,  like  the  undulations 
of  the  sea,  over  all  the  landscape,  with,  here 
and  there  a  silver  flash  of  the  river,  a  seques- 
tered hamlet,  or  the  towers  of  an  old  chateau, 
to  enliven  and  variegate  the  scene. 

The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The 
peasantry  were  busy  in  the  fields,  —  the  song 
that  cheered  their  labor  was  on  the  breeze,  and 


96       THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

the  heavy  wagon  tottered  by,  laden  with  the  clus- 
ters of  the  vine.  Every  thing  around  me  wore 
that  happy  look  which  makes  the  heart  glad. 
In  the  morning  I  arose  with  the  lark  ;  and  at 
night  I  slept  where  sunset  overtook  me.  The 
healthy  exercise  of  foot-travelling,  the  pure, 
bracing  air  of  autumn,  and  the  cheerful  aspect 
of  the  whole  landscape  about  me,  gave  fresh 
elasticity  to  a  mind  not  overburdened  with  care, 
and  made  me  forget  not  only  the  fatigue  of 
walking,  but  also  the  consciousness  of  being 
alone. 

My  first  day's  journey  brought  me  at  evening 
to  a  village,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  sit- 
uated about  eight  leagues  from  Orleans.  It  is  a 
small,  obscure  hamlet,  not  mentioned  in  the 
guide-book,  and  stands  upon  the  precipitous 
banks  of  a  deep  ravine,  through  which  a  noisy 
brook  leaps  down  to  turn  the  ponderous  wheel 
of  a  thatch-roofed  mill.  The  village  inn  stands 
upon  the  highway  ;  but  the  village  itself  is  not 
visible  to  the  traveller  as  he  passes.  It  is  com- 
pletely hidden  in  the  lap  of  a  wooded  valley, 
and  so  embowered  in  trees  that  not  a  roof  nor  a 
chimney  peeps  out  to  betray  its  hiding-place. 
It  is  like  the  nest  of  a  ground-swallow,  which 


THE  VALLET  OF  THE  LOIKE.       97 

die  passinz  footstep  almost  treads  upon,  and  yet 
it  is  not  seen.  1  passed  by  without  suspecting 
that  a  village  was  near ;  and  the  little  inn  had 
a  look  so  uninviting  that  I  did  not  even  enter  it. 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther,  I  per- 
ceived, upon  my  left,  a  village  spire  rising  over 
the  vineyards.  Towards  this  I  directed  my  foot- 
steps ;  hut  it  seemed  to  recede  as  I  advanced, 
and  at  last  quite  disappeared.  It  was  evidently 
many  miles  distant ;  and  as  the  path  I  followed 
descended  from  the  highway,  it  had  gradually 
sunk  beneath  a  swell  of  the  vine-clad  landscape. 
I  now  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  an  extensive 
vineyard.  It  was  just  sunset  ;  and  the  last  gold- 
en rays  fingered  on  the  rich  and  mellow  scenery 
around  me.  The  peasantry  were  still  busy  at 
their  task;  and  die  occasional  bark  of  a  dog, 
and  the  distant  sound  of  an  evening  bell,  gave 
fresh  romance  to  die  scene.  The  reality  of 
many  a  day-dream  of  childhood,  of  many  a 
poetic  revery  of  youth,  was  before  me.  I  stood 
at  sunset  amid  die  luxuriant  vineyards  of  France ! 

The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  woman, 
a  little  bowed  down  with  age,  gathering  grapes 
into  a  large  basket.  She  was  dressed  like  die 
poorest  class  of  peasantry,  and  pursued  her  sol- 


98       THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

itary  task  alone,  heedless  of  the  cheerful  gossip 
and  the  merry  laugh  which  came  from  a  band 
of  more  youthful  vintagers  at  a  short  distance 
from  her.  She  was  so  intently  engaged  in  her 
work,  that  she  did  not  perceive  my  approach  until 
I  bade  her  good  evening.  On  hearing  my  voice, 
she  looked  up  from  her  labor,  and  returned  the 
salutation  ;  and,  on  my  asking  her  if  there  were 
a  tavern  or  a  farm-house  in  the  neighbourhood 
where  I  could  pass  the  night,  she  showed  me 
the  pathway  through  the  vineyard  that  led  to 
the  village,  and  then  added,  with  a  look  of  cu- 
riosity, — 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger,  Sir,  in  these  parts." 
"  Yes  ;  my  home  is  very  far  from  here." 
"  How  far  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues." 
The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 
"  I  came  from  a  distant  land  beyond  the  sea." 
"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues  !  "  at  length 
repeated   she;    "and   why   have   you   come   so 
far  from  home  ?  " 

"To  travel; — to  see   how  you  live  in  this 
country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own  ?  " 
"  Yes  ;   I   have   both  brothers  and  sisters,  a 
father  and » 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE.  99 

"  And  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have.  " 

"  And  did  you  leave  her  9  " 

Here  the  old  woman  gave  me  a  piercing  look 
of  reproof ;  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and,  with 
a  deep  sigh,  as  if  some  painful  recollection  had 
been  awakened  in  her  bosom,  turned  again  to  her 
solitary  task.  I  felt  rebuked  ;  for  there  is  some- 
thing almost  prophetic  in  the  admonitions  of  the 
old.  The  eye  of  age  looks  meekly  into  my 
heart !  the  voice  of  age  echoes  mournfully  through 
it !  the  hoary  head  and  palsied  hand  of  age  plead 
irresistibly  for  its  sympathies  !  I  venerate  old 
age  ;  and  I  love  not  the  man  who  can  look  with- 
out emotion  upon  the  sunset  of  life,  when  the 
dusk  of  evening  begins  to  gather  over  the  wa- 
tery eye,  and  the  shadows  of  twilight  grow  broad- 
er and  deeper  upon  the  understanding  ! 

I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards  the 
village,  and  the  next  person  I  encountered  was 
an  old  man,  stretched  lazily  beneath  the  vines 
upon  a  little  strip  of  turf,  at  a  point  where  four 
paths  met,  forming  a  crossway  in  the  vineyard. 
He  was  clad  in  a  coarse  garb  of  gray,  with  a 
pair  of  long  gaiters  or  spatterdashes.  Beside 
him  lay  a  blue  cloth  cap,  a  staff",  and  an  old 


100  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE. 

weather-beaten  knapsack.  I  saw  at  once  that 
he  was  a  foot-traveller  like  myself,  and  therefore, 
without  more  ado,  entered  into  conversation  with 
him.  From  his  language,  and  the  peculiar  man- 
ner in  which  he  now  and  then  wiped  his  upper 
lip  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  if  in  search 
of  the  mustache  which  was  no  longer  there,  I 
judged  that  he  had  been  a  soldier.  In  this  opin- 
ion I  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  served  under 
Napoleon,  and  had  followed  the  imperial  eagle 
across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  the 
burning  sands  of  Egypt.  Like  every  vieille 
moustache,  he  spake  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Little 
Corporal,  and  cursed  the  English,  the  Germans, 
the  Spanish,  and  every  other  race  on  earth,  ex- 
cept the  Great  Nation, —  his  own. 

"  I  like,"  said  he,  "  after  a  long  day's  march, 
to  lie  down  in  this  way  upon  the  grass,  and  en- 
joy the  cool  of  the  evening.  It  reminds  me  of 
the  bivouacs  of  other  days,  and  of  old  friends 
who  are  now  up  there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  sky. 

"  They  have  reached  the  last  etape  before 
me,  in  the  long  march.  But  I  shall  go  soon. 
We  shall  all  meet  again  at  the  last  roll-call. 
Sucre  now  de !  There  's  a  tear  !  " 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.      101 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  ap- 
proach of  a  group  of  vintagers,  who  were  re- 
turning homeward  from  their  labor.  To  this 
party  I  joined  myself,  and  invited  the  old  soldier 
to  do  the  same  ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thank  you  ;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  different 
direction." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the 
sun  has  already  set." 

"  No  matter.  I  am  used  to  sleeping  on  the 
ground.  Good  night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and 
walked  on  in  company  with  the  vintagers.  Fol- 
lowing a  well  trodden  pathway  through  the  vine- 
yards, we  soon  descended  the  valley's  slope,  and 
I  suddenly  found  myself  in  the  bosom  of  one 
of  those  little  hamlets  from  which  the  laborer 
rises  to  his  toil  as  the  skylark  to  his  song.  My 
companions  wished  me  a  good  night,  as  each 
entered  his  own  thatch-roofed  cottage,  and  a 
little  girl  led  me  out  to  the  very  inn  which  an 
hour  or  two  before  I  had  disdained  to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  brilliant  au- 
tumnal sun  was  shining  hi  at  my  window.  The 
merry  song  of  birds  mingled  sweetly  with  the 


102      THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

sound  of  rustling  leaves  and  the  gurgle  of  the 
brook.  The  vintagers  were  going  forth  to  their 
toil ;  the  wine-press  was  busy  in  the  shade,  and 
the  clatter  of  the  mill  kept  time  to  the  miller's 
song.  I  loitered  about  the  village  with  a  feeling 
of  calm  delight.  I  was  unwilling  to  leave  the 
seclusion  of  this  sequestered  hamlet ;  but  at  length, 
with  reluctant  step,  I  took  the  cross-road  through 
the  vineyard,  and  in  a  moment  the  little  village 
had  sunk  again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  into  the 
bosom  of  the  earth. 

I  breakfasted  at  the  town  of  Mer  ;  and,  leaving 
the  high-road  to  Blois  on  the  right,  passed  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  through  a  long,  broad 
avenue  of  poplars  and  sycamores.  I  crossed  the 
river  in  a  boat,  and  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  I 
found  myself  before  the  high  and  massive  walls 
of  the  chateau  of  Chambord.  This  chateau  is 
one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  the  ancient  Gothic 
castle  to  be  found  in  Europe.  The  little  river 
Cosson  fills  its  deep  and  ample  moat,  and  above 
it  the  huge  towers  and  heavy  battlements  rise 
in  stern  and  solemn  grandeur,  moss-grown  with 
age,  and  blackened  by  the  storms  of  three  cen- 
turies. Within,  all  is  mournful  and  deserted. 
The  grass  has  overgrown  the  pavement  of  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.      103 

courtyard,  and  the  rude  sculpture  upon  the  walls 
is  broken  and  defaced.  From  the  courtyard 
I  entered  the  central  tower,  and,  ascending  the 
principal  staircase,  went  out  upon  the  battlements. 
I  seemed  to  have  stepped  back  into  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  feudal  ages ;  and,  as  I  passed  along 
through  echoing  corridors,  and  vast,  deserted 
halls,  stripped  of  their  furniture,  and  mouldering 
silently  away,  the  distant  past  came  back  upon 
me  ;  and  the  times  when  the  clang  of  arms,  and 
the  tramp  of  mail-clad  men,  and  the  sounds  of 
music  and  revelry  and  wassail,  echoed  along 
those  high-vaulted  and  solitary  chambers  ! 

My  third  day's  journey  brought  me  to  the 
ancient  city  of  Blois,  the  chief  town  of  the  de- 
partment of  Loire-et-Cher.  This  city  is  cel- 
ebrated for  the  purity  with  which  even  the  lower 
classes  of  its  inhabitants  speak  their  native  tongue. 
It  rises  precipitously  from  the  northern  bank 
of  the  Loire  ;  and  many  of  its  streets  are  so 
steep  as  to  be  almost  impassable  for  carriages. 
On  the  brow  of  the  bill,  overlooking  the  roofs 
of  the  city,  and  commanding  a  fine  view  of  the 
Loire  and  its  noble  bridge,  and  the  surrounding 
country,  sprinkled  with  cottages  and  chateaux, 
runs  an  ample  terrace,  planted  with  trees,  and 


104      THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

laid  out  as  a  public  walk.  The  view  from  this 
terrace  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  France. 
But  what  most  strikes  the  eye  of  the  traveller 
at  Blois  is  an  old,  though  still  unfinished,  castle. 
Its  huge  parapets  of  hewn  stone  stand  upon  either 
side  of  the  street ;  but  they  have  walled  up  the 
wide  gateway,  from  which  the  colossal  drawbridge 
was  to  have  sprung  high  in  air,  connecting  to- 
gether the  main  towers  of  the  building,  and  the 
two  hills  upon  whose  slope  its  foundations  stand. 
The  aspect  of  this  vast  pile  is  gloomy  and  des- 
olate. It  seems  as  if  the  strong  hand  of  the 
builder  had  been  arrested  in  the  midst  of  his 
task  by  the  stronger  hand  of  death  ;  and  the 
unfinished  fabric  stands  a  lasting  monument  both 
of  the  power  and  weakness  of  man,  —  of  his  vast 
desires,  his  sanguine  hopes,  his  ambitious  pur- 
poses,—  and  of  the  unlooked-for  conclusion, 
where  all  these  desires,  and  hopes,  and  purposes 
are  so  often  arrested.  There  is  also  at  Blois 
another  ancient  chateau,  to  which  some  historic 
interest  is  attached,  as  being  the  scene  of  the 
massacre  of  the  Duke  of  Guise. 

On  the  following  day,  I  left  Blois  for  Amboise  ; 
and,  after  walking  several  leagues  along  the  dusty 
highway,  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat  to  the  little 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE.      105 

village  of  Moines,  which  ties  amid  luxuriant 
vineyards  upon  the  southern  bank  of  the  Loire. 
From  Moines  to  Amboise  the  road  is  truly  de- 
tishtful.  The  rich  lowland  scenery,  by  the  mar- 
gin of  the  river,  is  verdant  even  in  October ; 
and  occasionally  the  landscape  is  diversified  with 
the  picturesque  cottages  of  the  vintagers,  cut  in 
the  rock  along  the  road-side,  and  overhung  by 
the  thick  foliage  of  the  vines  above  them. 

At  Amboise  I  took  a  cross-road,  which  led  me 
to  the  romantic  borders  of  the  Cher  and  the 
chateau  of  Chemanceau.  This  beautiful  chateau, 
as  well  as  that  of  Chambord,  was  built  by  the 
gay  and  munificent  Francis  the  First.  One  is  a 
specimen  of  strong  and  massive  architecture,  — 
a  dwelling  for  a  warrior ;  but  the  other  is  of  a  tight- 
er and  more  graceful  construction,  and  was  des- 
tined for  those  soft  languishments  of  passion  with 
which  the  fascinating  Diane  de  Poitiers  had  filled 
the  bosom  of  that  voluptuous  monarch. 

The  chateau  of  Chernanceau  is  built  upon 
arches  across  the  river  Cher,  whose  waters  are 
made  to  supply  the  deep  moat  at  each  extremity. 
There  is  a  spacious  courtyard  in  front,  from 
which  a  drawbridge  conducts  to  the  outer  hall 
of  the  castle.  There  the  armor  of  Francis  the 


106      THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

First  still  hangs  upon  the  wall,  —  his  shield,  and 
helm,  and  lance,  —  as  if  the  chivalrous  but  disso- 
lute prince  had  just  exchanged  them  for  the  silken 
robes  of  the  drawing-room.  From  this  hall  a 
door  opens  into  a  long  gallery,  extending  the 
whole  length  of  the  building  across  the  Cher. 
The  walls  of  the  gallery  are  hung  with  the  faded 
portraits  of  the  long  line  of  the  descendants  of 
Hugh  Capet ;  and  the  windows,  looking  up  and 
down  the  stream,  command  a  fine  reach  of  pleas- 
ant river  scenery.  This  is  said  to  be  the  only 
chateau  in  France  in  which  the  ancient  furniture 
of  its  original  age  is  preserved.  In  one  part 
of  the  building,  you  are  shown  the  bed-chamber 
of  Diane  de  Poitiers,  with  its  antique  chairs 
covered  with  faded  damask  and  embroidery,  her 
bed,  and  a  portrait  of  the  royal  favorite  hanging 
over  the  mantelpiece.  In  another  you  see  the 
apartment  of  the  infamous  Catherine  de'  Medici  ; 
a  venerable  arm-chair  and  an  autograph  letter 
of  Henry  the  Fourth  ;  and  in  an  old  laboratory, 
among  broken  crucibles,  and  neckless  retorts,  and 
drums,  and  trumpets,  and  skins  of  wild  beasts, 
and  other  ancient  lumber  of  various  kinds,  are  to 
be  seen  the  bed-posts  of  Francis  the  First. 
Doubtless  the  naked  walls  and  the  vast  solitary 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE.  107 

chambers  of  an  old  and  desolate  chateau  inspire  a 
feeling  of  greater  solemnity  and  awe  ;  but  when 
the  antique  furniture  of  the  olden  time  remains,  — 
the  faded  tapestry  on  the  walls,  and  the  arm-chair 
by  the  fireside, — the  effect  upon  the  mind  is 
more  magical  and  delightful.  The  old  inhabitants 
of  the  place,  long  gathered  to  their  fathers,  though 
living  still  in  history,  seem  to  have  left  their  halls 
for  the  chase  or  the  tournament ;  and  as  the 
heavy  door  swings  upon  its  reluctant  hinge,  one 
almost  expects  to  see  the  gallant  princes  and 
courtly  dames  enter  those  halls  again,  and  sweep 
in  stately  procession  along  the  silent  corridors. 

Rapt  in  such  fancies  as  these,  and  gazing  on 
the  beauties  of  this  noble  edifice,  and  the  soft 
scenery  around  it,  I  lingered,  unwilling  to  depart, 
till  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through 
the  dusty  windows,  admonished  me  that  the  day 
was  drawing  rapidly  to  a  close.  I  sallied  forth 
from  the  southern  gate  of  the  chateau,  and,- 
crossing  the  broken  drawbridge,  pursued  a  path-. 
way  along  the  bank  of  the  river,  still  gazing  back 
upon  those  towering  walls,  now  bathed  in  the 
rich  glow  of  sunset,  till  a  turn  in  the  road  and  a 
clump  of  woodland  at  length  shut  them  out  from 
my  sight. 


108      THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  LOIRE. 

A  short  time  after  candle-lighting,  I  reached 
the  little  tavern  of  the  Boule  d'Or,  a  few  leagues 
from  Tours,  where  I  passed  the  night.  The 
following  morning  was  lowering  and  sad.  A  veil 
of  mist  hung  over  the  landscape,  and  ever  and 
anon  a  heavy  shower  burst  from  the  overburdened 
clouds,  that  were  driving  by  before  a  high  and 
piercing  wind.  This  unpropitious  state  of  the 
weather  detained  me  until  noon,  when  a  ca- 
briolet for  Tours  drove  up  ;  and  taking  a  seat 
within  it,  I  left  the  hostess  of  the  Boule  d'Or 
in  the  middle  of  a  long  story  about  a  rich  count- 
ess, who  always  alighted  there  when  she  passed 
that  way.  We  drove  leisurely  along  through 
a  beautiful  country,  till  at  length  we  came  to 
the  brow  of  a  steep  hill,  which  commands  a  fine 
view  of  the  city  of  Tours  and  its  delightful  en- 
virons. But  the  scene  was  shrouded  by  the 
heavy  drifting  mist,  through  which  I  could  trace 
but  indistinctly  the  graceful  sweep  of  the  Loire, 
and  the  spires  and  roofs  of  the  city  far  below  me. 

The  city  of  Tours  and  the  delicious  plain  in 
which  it  lies  have  been  too  often  described  by 
other  travellers  to  render  a  new  description, 
from  so  listless  a  pen  as  mine,  either  necessary 
or  desirable.  After  a  sojourn  of  two  cloudy 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE.  109 

and  melancholy  days,  I  set  out  on  my  return 
to  Paris,  by  the  way  of  Vendome  and  Chartres. 
I  stopped  a  few  hours  at  the  former  place,  to 
examine  the  ruins  of  a  chateau  built  by  Jeanne 
d'Albret,  mother  of  Henry  the  Fourth.  It  stands 
upon  the  summit  of  a  high  and  precipitous  hill, 
and  almost  overhangs  the  town  beneath.  The 
French  Revolution  has  completed  the  ruin  that 
time  had  already  begun ;  and  nothing  now  remains, 
but  a  broken  and  crumbling  bastion,  and  here 
and  there  a  solitary  tower  dropping  slowly  to 
decay.  In  one  of  these  is  the  grave  of  Jeanne 
d'Albret.  A  marble  entablature  in  the  wall 
above  contains  the  inscription,  which  is  nearly 
effaced,  though  enough  still  remains  to  tell  the 
curious  traveller  that  there  lies  buried  the  mother 
of  the  "Bon  Henri."  To  this  is  added  a 
prayer  that  the  repose  of  the  dead  may  be  re- 
spected. 

Here  ended  my  foot  excursion.  The  object 
of  my  journey  was  accomplished  ;  and,  delighted 
with  this  short  ramble  through  the  valley  of  the 
Loire,  I  took  my  seat  in  the  diligence  for  Paris, 
and  on  the  following  day  was  again  swallowed 
up  in  the  crowds  of  the  metropolis,  like  a  drop 
in  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 


THE  TROUVERES. 


Quant  recommence  et  revient  biaux  estez, 
Q,ue  foille  et  flor  resplendit  par  boschage, 
Que  li  froiz  tanz  de  1'hyver  est  passez, 
Et  cil  oisel  chantent  en  lor  langage, 
Lors  chanterai 
Et  envoisiez  serai 
De  cuer  verai. 

JAQ.UES  DE  CHISON. 


THE  literature  of  France  is  peculiarly  rich  in 
poetry  of  the  olden  time.  We  can  trace  up  the 
stream  of  song  until  it  is  lost  in  the  deepening 
shadows  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Even  there  it  is 
not  a  shallow  tinkling  rill  ;  but  it  comes  like  a 
mountain  stream,  rushing  and  sounding  onward 
through  the  enchanted  regions  of  romance,  and 
mingles  its  voice  with  the  tramp  of  steeds  and  the 
brazen  sound  of  arms. 

The   glorious  reign  of  Charlemagne,*  at  the 

*  The  following  amusing  description  of  this  Restorer  of 
Letters,  as  his  biographers  call  him,  is  taken  from  the  fab- 
ulous Chronicle  of  John  Turpin,  Chap.  XX. 

"  The  emperor  was  of  a  ruddy  complexion,  with  brown 


THE    TROUVERES.  Ill 

close  of  the  eighth  and  the  commencement  of  the 
ninth  century,  seems  to  have  breathed  a  spirit  of 
learning  as  well  as  of  chivalry  throughout  all 
France.  The  monarch  established  schools  and 
academies  in  different  parts  of  his  realm,  and  took 
delight  in  the  society  and  conversation  of  learned 
men.  It  is  amusing  to  see  with  what  evident  self- 
satisfaction  some  of  the  magi  whom  he  gathered 
around  him  speak  of  their  exertions  in  widening 
the  sphere  of  human  knowledge,  and  pouring  in 
light  upon  the  darkness  of  their  age.  "  For 


hair;  of  a  well  made,  handsome  form,  but  a  stern  visage. 
His  height  was  about  eight  of  his  own  feet,  whkh  were  very 
long.  He  was  of  a  strong,  robust  make  ;  his  legs  and  thighs 
very  stout,  and  his  sinews  firm.  His  face  was  thirteen  inch- 
es long;  bis  beard  a  palm;  his  nose  halfapalm;  his  fore- 
bead  a  foot  over.  His  lion-like  eyes  flashed  fire  like  car- 
buncles ;  his  eyebrows  were  half  a  palm  over.  When  be 
was  angry,  it  was  a  tenor  to  look  upon  him.  He  required 
eight  spans  for  his  girdle,  besides  what  hung  loose.  He  ate 
sparingly  of  bread ;  but  a  whole  quarter  of  lamb,  two  fowls, 
a  goose,  or  a  large  portion  of  pork ;  a  peacock,  a  crane,  or  a 
whole  hare.  He  drank  moderately  of  wine  and  water.  He 
was  so  strong,  that  be  could  at  a  single  blow  cleave  unnaW 
an  armed  soldier  on  horseback,  from  the  bead  to  the  waist, 
and  the  horse  likewise.  He  easily  vaulted  over  fonr  horses 
harnessed  together;  and  could  raise  an  armed  man  from  the 
ground  to  his  head,  as  he  stood  erect  upon  his  band." 


112  THE    TROUVERES. 

some,"  says  Alcuin,  the  director  of  the  school 
of  St.  Martin  de  Tours,  "  I  cause  the  honey 
of  the  Holy  Scriptures  to  flow  ;  I  intoxicate 
others  with  the  old  wine  of  ancient  history ;  these 
I  nourish  with  the  fruits  of  grammar,  gathered 
by  my  own  hands  ;  and  those  I  enlighten  by 
pointing  out  to  them  the  stars,  like  lamps  attached 
by  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a  great  palace  !  " 

Besides  this  classic  erudition  of  the  schools, 
the  age  had  also  its  popular  literature.  Those 
who  were  untaught  in  scholastic  wisdom  were 
learned  in  traditionary  lore ;  for  they  had  their 
ballads,  in  which  were  described  the  valor  and 
achievements  of  the  early  kings  of  the  Franks. 
These  ballads,  of  which  a  collection  was  made 
by  order  of  Charlemagne,  animated  the  rude 
soldier  as  he  rushed  to  battle,  and  were  sung  in 
the  midnight  bivouacs  of  the  camp.  "  Perhaps 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say,"  observes  the  literary 
historian  Schlegel,  "that  we  have  still  in  our 
possession,  if  not  the  original  language  and  form, 
at  least  the  substance,  of  many  of  those  ancient 
poems  which  were  collected  by  the  orders  of  that 
prince  ;  —  I  refer  to  the  Nibelungenlied,  and 
the  collection  which  goes  by  the  name  of  the 
Heldenbuch." 


THE    TROCVERES.  113 

When  at  length  the  old  Tudesque  language, 
which  was  the  court  language  of  Charlemagne, 
had  given  place  to  the  Langue  d'Ofl,  the  northern 
dialect  of  the  French  Romance,  these  ancient  bal- 
lads passed  from  the  memories  of  the  descendants 
of  the  Franks,  and  were  succeeded  by  the  roman- 
ces of  Charlemagne  and  his  Twelve  Peers, — 
of  Rowland,  and  Otivir,  and  the  other  paladins 
who  died  at  RoncesvaDes.  Robert  Wace,  a 
Norman  Trouvere  of  the  twelfth  century,  says 
in  one  of  his  poems,  that  a  minstrel  named  Tafl- 
lefer,  mounted  on  a  swift  horse,  went  in  front 
of  the  Norman  army  at  the  battle  of  Hastings, 
singing  these  ancient  poems. 

These  Ckamson*  dt  Gate,  or  old  historic  ro- 
mances of  France,  are  epic  in  their  character, 
though,  without  doubt,  they  were  written  to  be 
chanted  to  the  sound  of  an  instrument.  To  what 
period  many  of  them  belong,  in  their  present 
form,  has  never  yet  been  fully  determined  ;  and 
should  it  finally  be  proved  by  philological  research 
that  they  can  claim  no  higher  antiquity  than  the 
twelfth  or  thirteenth  century,  still  there  can  be 
little  doubt  that  in  their  original  form  many  of 
them  reached  far  back  into  the  ninth  or  tenth. 
The  long  prevalent  theory,  that  the  romances  of 
- 


114  THE    TROUVERES. 

the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  all  originated  in 
the  fabulous  chronicle  of  Charlemagne  and  Row- 
land, written  by  the  Archbishop  Turpin  in  the 
twelfth  century,  if  not  as  yet  generally  exploded, 
is  nevertheless  fast  losing  ground. 

To  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  also  be- 
long most  of  the  Fabliaux,  or  metrical  tales  of  the 
Trouveres.  Many  of  these  compositions  are  re- 
markable for  the  inventive  talent  they  display,  but 
as  poems  they  have,  generally  speaking,  little 
merit,  and  at  times  exhibit  such  a  want  of  refine- 
ment, such  open  and  gross  obscenity,  as  to  be 
highly  offensive. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the  literary 
history  of  France,  that,  while  her  antiquarians  and 
scholars  have  devoted  themselves  to  collecting 
and  illustrating  the  poetry  of  the  Troubadours, 
the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  South,  that  of  the 
Trouveres,  or  Troubadours  of  the  North,  has 
been  almost  entirely  neglected.  By  a  singular 
fatality,  too,  what  little  time  and  attention  have 
hitherto  been  bestowed  upon  the  fathers  of  French 
poetry  have  been  so  directed  as  to  save  from 
oblivion  little  of  the  most  valuable  portions  of 
their  writings  ;  while  the  more  tedious  and  worth- 
less parts  have  been  brought  forth  to  the  public 


THE    TROUVERES.  115 

eye,  as  if  to  deaden  curiosity,  and  put  an  end 
to  further  research.  The  ancient  historic  roman- 
ces of  the  land  have,  for  the  most  part,  been  left 
to  slumber  unnoticed ;  while  the  obscene  and 
tiresome  Fabliaux  have  been  ushered  into  the 
world  as  fair  specimens  of  the  ancient  poetry 
of  France.  This  has  created  unjust  prejudices 
in  the  minds  of  many  against  the  literature  of  the 
olden  time,  and  has  led  them  to  regard  it  as  nodi- 
ing  more  than  a  confused  mass  of  coarse  and 
vulgar  fictions,  adapted  to  a  rude  and  inelegant 
state  of  society. 

Of  late,  however,  a  more  discerning  judgment 
has  been  brought  to  the  difficult  task  of  ancient 
research  ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this,  the  long- 
established  prejudices  against  the  crumbling  mon- 
uments of  the  national  literature  of  France  during 
the  Middle  Ages  is  fast  disappearing.  Several 
learned  men  are  engaged  in  rescuing  from  ob- 
livion the  ancient  poetic  romances  of  Charle- 
magne and  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France,  and 
their  labors  seem  destined  to  throw  new  light, 
not  only  upon  the  state  of  literature,  but  upon  the 
state  of  society,  during  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries. 

Among  the  voluminous  remains  of  Troubadour 


116  THE    TROUVERES. 

literature,  little  else  has  yet  been  discovered  than 
poems  of  a  lyric  character.  The  lyre  of  the 
Troubadour  seems  to  have  responded  to  the  im- 
pulse of  momentary  feelings  only,  —  to  the  touch 
of  local  and  transitory  circumstances.  His  song 
was  a  sudden  burst  of  excited  feeling ;  —  it  ceased 
when  the  passion  was  subdued,  or  rather  when 
its  first  feverish  excitement  passed  away  ;  and 
as  the  liveliest  feelings  are  the  most  transitory, 
the  songs  which  embodied  them  are  short,  but 
full  of  spirit  and  energy.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
great  mass  of  the  poetry  of  the  Trouveres  is 
of  a  narrative  or  epic  character.  The  genius  of 
the  North  seems  always  to  have  delighted  in  ro- 
mantic fiction  ;  and  whether  we  attribute  the  or- 
igin of  modern  romance  to  the  Arabians  or  to 
the  Scandinavians,  this  at  least  is  certain,  that 
there  existed  marvellous  tales  in  the  Northern 
languages,  and  from  these,  in  part  at  least,  the 
Trouveres  imbibed  the  spirit  of  narrative  poetry. 
There  are  no  traces  of  lyric  compositions  among 
their  writings,  till  about  the  commencement  of  the 
thirteenth  century  ;  and  it  seems  probable  that 
the  spirit  of  song-writing  was  imbibed  from  the 
Troubadours  of  the  South. 

Unfortunately,  the  neglect  which  has  so  long 


THE    TROCVERES.  117 

attended  the  old  historic  and  heroic  romances 
of  the  North  of  France  has  also  befallen  in  some 
degree  its  early  lyric  poetry.  Little  has  yet  been 
done  to  discover  and  bring  forth  its  riches  ;  and 
doubtless  many  a  sweet  little  ballad  and  melan- 
choly complaint  fies  buried  in  the  dust  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  It  is  not,  however,  my  object, 
in  this  paper,  to  give  a  historical  sketch  of  this 
ancient  and  almost  forgotten  poetry,  but  sim- 
ply to  bring  forward  a  few  specimens  which  shall 
exhibit  its  most  striking  and  obvious  character- 
istics. 

In  these  examples  it  would  be  in  vain  to  look 
for  high-wrought  expression  suited  to  the  pre- 
vafling  taste  of  the  present  day.  Their  most 
striking  peculiarity,  and  perhaps  their  greatest 
merit,  consists  in  the  simple  and  direct  expression 
of  feeling  which  they  contain.  This  feeling, 
too,  is  one  which  breathes  the  languor  of  that 
submissive  homage  which  was  paid  to  beauty 
in  the  days  of  chivalry  ;  and  I  am  aware,  that,  in 
this  age  of  masculine  and  matter-of-fact  thinking, 
the  love-conceits  of  a  more  poetic  state  of  society 
are  generally  looked  upon  as  extremely  trivial 
and  puerile.  Nevertheless  I  shall  venture  to 
present  one  or  two  of  these  simple  ballads,  which, 


118  THE    TROUVERES. 

by  recalling  the  distant  age  wherein  they  were 
composed,  may  peradventure  please  by  the  power 
of  contrast. 

I  have  just  remarked  that  one  of  the  greatest 
beauties  of  these  ancient  ditties  is  naivete  of 
thought  and  simplicity  of  expression.  These  I 
shall  endeavour  to  preserve  as  far  as  possible  in 
the  translation,  though  I  am  fully  conscious  how 
much  the  sparkling  beauty  of  an  original  loses  in 
being  filtered  through  the  idioms  of  a  foreign 
language. 

The  favorite  theme  of  the  ancient  lyric  poets 
of  the  North  of  France  is  the  wayward  passion 
of  love.  They  all  delight  to  sing  "  les  douces  do- 
lors et  li  mal  plaisant  define  amor."  With  such 
feelings  the  beauties  of  the  opening  spring  are 
naturally  associated.  Almost  every  love-ditty 
of  the  old  poets  commences  with  some  such 
exordium  as  this  :  — "  When  the  snows  of  winter 
have  passed  away,  when  the  soft  and  gentle  spring 
returns,  and  the  flower  and  leaf  shoot  in  the 
groves,  and  the  little  birds  warble  to  their  mates 
in  their  own  sweet  language,  —  then  will  I  sing 
my  lady-love !  " 

Another  favorite  introduction  to  these  little 
rhapsodies  of  romantic  passion  is  the  approach 


THE    TKOUVERES.  119 

of  morning  and  its  sweet-voiced  herald,  die  lark. 
The  minstrel's  sons  to  his  lady-love  frequemly 
wiihan  allusion  to  the  hour 

'Wfc«  ike  rose-bud  opes  its  tea, 
Aadtfel 


The  following  is  at  once  die  simplest  and  pret- 
tiest piece  of  thb  kind  which  I  have  met  with 
among  die  early  lyric  poets  of  die  North  of 
France.  It  is  taken  from  an  anonymous  poem, 
entitled  "  The  Paradise  of  Lore."  A  lover, 
having  passed  die  "livelong  night  in  tears,  as 
he  was  wont,'1  goes  forth  to  beguile  his  sorrows 
widi  die  fragrance  and  beauty  of  morning.  The 
carol  of  die  vaulting  skylark  salutes  his  ear,  and 
to  this  merry  mreician  he  makes  his  complaint. 

Hzif.bark! 
PMtrlnk! 


B«t  if  to  the* 

PltriBg  I^n*  raid  jirld  tfct  efcanns 
Oftfcefiir 

Biiife  woold  btat  BIT  beat  ag*i»- 


120  THE    TROUVERES. 

Hurk !  hark  ! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
Love  may  force  me  still  to  bear, 
While  he  lists,  consuming  care ; 

But  in  anguish 

Though  I  languish, 
Faithful  shall  my  heart  remain. 

Hark!  hark! 

Pretty  lark  ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 
Then  cease,  Love,  to  torment  me  so  ; 
But  rather  than  all  thoughts  forego 

Of  the  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 
Give  me  back  her  frowns  again. 

Hark  !  hark ! 
Pretty  lark ! 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain  ! 

Besides  the  "woful  ballad  made  to  his  mis- 
tress's eyebrow,"  the  early  lyric  poet  frequently 
indulges  in  more  calmly  analyzing  the  philosophy 
of  love,  or  in  questioning  the  object  and  des- 
tination of  a  sigh.  Occasionally  these  quaint 
conceits  are  prettily  expressed,  and  the  little 
song  flutters  through  the  page  like  a  butterfly. 
The  following  is  an  example. 


THE    TROL'VERES.  121 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

Say,  dost  thou  bear  his  fate  severe 
To  Lore's  poor  martyr  doomed  to  die  ? 
Come,  tell  me  quickly,  —  do  not  lie ; 

What  secret  message  bring'st  thou  here  • 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

May  Heaven  conduct  thee  to  thy  will, 
And  safely  speed  thee  on  thy  way ; 
This  only  I  would  humbly  pray,  — 

Pierce  deep,  —  but,  O  !  forbear  to  kill. 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

The  ancient  lyric  poets  of  France  are  gener- 
ally spoken  of  as  a  class,  and  their  beauties  and 
defects  referred  to  them  collectively,  and  not 
individually.  In  truth,  diere  are  few  charac- 
teristic marks  by  which  any  individual  author 
can  be  singled  out  and  ranked  above  the  rest. 
The  lyric  poets  of  the  thirteenth  and  fourteenth 
centuries  stand  upon  nearly  the  same  level.  But 
in  the  fifteenth  century  there  were  two  who  sur- 
passed all  their  contemporaries  in  the  beauty  and 
delicacy  of  their  sentiments  ;  and  in  the  sweet- 
ness of  their  diction,  and  the  structure  of  their 
verse,  stand  far  in  advance  of  the  age  in  which 


122  THE    TROUVERES. 

they  lived.  These  are  Charles  d'Orleans  and 
Clotilde  de  Surville. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  father  of  Louis 
the  Twelfth,  and  uncle  of  Francis  the  First,  was 
born  in  1391.  In  the  general  tenor  of  his  life, 
the  peculiar  character  of  his  mind,  and  his  talent 
for  poetry,  there  is  a  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween this  noble  poet  and  James  the  First  of 
Scotland,  his  contemporary.  Both  were  re- 
markable for  learning  and  refinement ;  both  passed 
a  great  portion  of  their  lives  in  sorrow  and 
imprisonment ;  and  both  cheered  the  solitude 
of  their  prison-walls  with  the  charms  of  poetry. 
Charles  d'Orleans  was  taken  prisoner  at  the  battle 
of  Agincourt,  in  1415,  and  carried  into  England, 
where  he  remained  twenty-five  years  in  captivity. 
It  was  there  that  he  composed  the  greater  part 
of  his  poetry. 

The  poems  of  this  writer  exhibit  a  singular 
delicacy  of  thought  and  sweetness  of  expres- 
sion. The  following  little  Renouveaux,  or  songs 
on  the  return  of  spring,  are  full  of  delicacy  and 
beauty. 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 


THE    TROUVKRES.  123 

With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings. 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings  ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry  ; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look  ; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

The  second  upon  the  same  subject  presents  a 
still  more  agreeable  picture  of  the  departure  of 
winter  and  the  return  of  spring. 

Gentle  spring !  —  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  winter  maketh  the  light  bean  sad, 

And  thou,  —  thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees  so  old 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


124  THE    TROUVERES. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  in  a  mantle  of  cloud ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright,  —  and  winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

The  only  person  of  that  age  who  can  dispute 
the  laurel  with  Charles  d'Orleans  is  Clotilde  de 
Surville.  This  poetess  was  born  in  the  Bas-Vi- 
varais,  in  the  year  1405.  Her  style  is  singularly 
elegant  and  correct ;  and  the  reader  who  will  take 
the  trouble  to  decipher  her  rude  provincial  or- 
thography will  find  her  writings  full  of  quiet 
beauty.  The  following  lines,  which  breathe  the 
very  soul  of  maternal  tenderness,  are  part  of  a 
poem  to  her  first-born. 

Sweet  babe  !  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed  ! 

Sleep,  little  one ;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast ! 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come  that  cometh  not  to  me  ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ;  — 
'T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee,  —  alone  for  thee  ! 


THE    TROCTEKES.  125 

Hk  arms  &U  down ;  sleep  sits  opon  his  brow; 

His  ere  k  closed;  he  sleeps,— bow  still  and  calm: 
Wore  not  hk  cheek  the  apple  s  raddy  glow, 

Wonld  yon  not  smy  he  slept  on  death's  cold  arm? 

Awake, my  boy !  — I  tremble  with  afiight! 

Awake,  and  chase  thk  fidal  thought !  —  unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose ! 

«r ! -he  but  slept;- 1  breathe  again  ;- 


O,  when  shall  he  for  whom  I  sigh  in  Tain 
Beside  me  watch  ID  see  thy  waking  smile 


But  upon  this  theme  I  have  written  enough, 
perhaps  too  much. 

« 'This  may  be  poetry,  for  angbt  I  know, 

Says  an  old,  worthy  fiiend  of  mine,  while  ieuny 
Over  my  shoulder  as  I  write, — «  although 

I  have  touched  upon  the  subject  before  me 
in  a  brief  and  desultory  manner,  and  have  pur- 
posely left  my  remarks  unencumbered  by  learned 
reference  and  far-sought  erudition ;  for  these  are 
ornaments  which  would  ill  become  so  trivial  a 
pen  as  this  wherewith  I  write,  though,  perchance, 
the  want  of  them  will  render  my  essay  unsat- 


126  THE    TROUVERES. 

isfactory  to  the  scholar  and  the  critic.  But  I 
am  emboldened  thus  to  skim  with  a  light  wing 
over  this  poetic  lore  of  the  past,  by  the  reflec- 
tion, that  the  greater  part  of  my  readers  belong 
not  to  that  grave  and  serious  class  who  love 
the  deep  wisdom  which  lies  in  quoting  from  a 
quaint,  forgotten  tome,  and  are  ready  on  all  occa- 
sions to  say,  "  Commend  me  to  the  owl  !  " 


BAPTISM  OF  FIRE. 


The  more  you  mow  as  down,  the  thicker  we  rise  :  the 
Christian  blood  you  spill  is  like  the  seed  you  sow,  —  it 
springs  from  the  earth  again  and  fructifies  the  more. 

TERTCLLIA*. 


As  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  rays 
of  the  setting  sun  climbed  slowly  up  the  dungeon 
wall,  the  prisoner  sat  and  read  in  a  tome  with 
silver  clasps.  He  was  a  man  in  the  vigor  of  his 
days,  with  a  pale  and  noble  countenance,  that 
wore  less  the  marks  of  worldly  care  than  of  high 
and  holy  thought.  His  temples  were  already 
bald  ;  but  a  thick  and  curling  beard  bespoke  the 
strength  of  manhood  ;  and  his  eye,  dark,  full,  and 
eloquent,  beamed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a 
martyr. 

The  book  before  him  was  a  volume  of  the 
early  Christian  Fathers.  He  was  reading  the 
Apologetic  of  the  eloquent  Tertullian,  the  oldest 
and  ablest  writer  of  the  Latin  Church.  At  times 
he  paused,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  as  if  in 


128  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

prayer,  and  then  read  on  again  in  silence.  At 
length  a  passage  seemed  to  touch  his  inmost  soul. 
He  read  aloud  :  — 

"  Give  us,  then,  what  names  you  please  ;  from 
the  instruments  of  cruelty  you  torture  us  by,  call 
us  Sarmenticians  and  Semaxians,  because  you 
fasten  us  to  trunks  of  trees,  and  stick  us  about 
with  fagots  to  set  us  on  fire ;  yet  let  me  tell  you, 
when  we  are  thus  begirt  and  dressed  about  with 
fire,  we  are  then  in  our  most  illustrious  apparel. 
These  are  our  victorious  palms  and  robes  of 
glory  ;  and,  mounted  on  our  funeral  pile,  we  look 
upon  ourselves  in  our  triumphal  chariot.  No 
wonder,  then,  such  passive  heroes  please  not 
those  they  vanquish  with  such  conquering  suffer- 
ings. And  therefore  we  pass  for  men  of  de- 
spair, and  violently  bent  upon  our  own  destruction. 
However,  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  madness 
and  despair  in  us  are  the  very  actions  which, 
under  virtue's  standard,  lift  up  your  sons  of  fame 
and  glory,  and  emblazon  them  to  future  ages." 

He  arose  and  paced  the  dungeon  to  and  fro, 
with  folded  arms  and  a  firm  step.  His  thoughts 
held  communion  with  eternity. 

"  Father  which  art  in  heaven !  "  he  exclaimed, 
"  give  me  strength  to  die  like  those  holy  men 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  129 

of  old,  who  scorned  to  purchase  life  at  the  ex- 
pense of  truth.  That  truth  has  made  me  free  ; 
and  though  condemned  on  earth,  I  know  that  I 
am  absolved  in  heaven  !  " 

lie  again  seated  himself  at  his  table,  and  read 
in  that  tome  with  silver  clasps. 

This  solitary  prisoner  was  Anne  Du  Bourg  ; 
a  man  who  feared  not  man ;  once  a  merciful 
judge  in  that  august  tribunal  upon  whose  voice 
hung  the  life  and  death  of  those  who  were  per- 
secuted for  conscience's  sake,  he  was  now  him- 
self an  accused,  a  convicted  heretic,  condemned 
to  the  baptism  of  fire,  because  be  would  not  un- 
righteously condemn  others.  He  had  dared  to 
plead  the  cause  of  suffering  humanity  before 
that  dread  tribunal,  and,  in  the  presence  of  the 
king  himself,  to  declare  that  it  was  an  offence 
to  the  majesty  of  God  to  shed  man's  blood  in 
his  name.  Six  weary  months,  —  from  June  to 
December,  —  he  had  kin  a  prisoner  in  that  dun- 
geon, from  which  a  death  by  fire  was  soon  to  set 
him  free.  Such  was  the  clemency  of  Henry  the 
Second! 

As  the  prisoner  read,  his  eyes  were  filled  widi 
tears.  He  still  gazed  upon  the  printed  page,  but 
it  was  a  blank  before  bis  eyes.  His  thoughts 
9 


130  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

were  far  away  amid  the  scenes  of  his  childhood, 
amid  the  green  valleys  of  Riom  and  the  Golden 
Mountains  of  Auvergne.  Some  simple  word 
had  called  up  the  vision  of  the  past.  He  was  a 
child  again.  He  was  playing  with  the  pebbles 
of  the  brook,  —  he  was  shouting  to  the  echo 
of  the  hills,  —  he  was  praying  at  his  mother's 
knee,  with  his  little  hands  clasped  in  hers. 

This  dream  of  childhood  was  broken  by  the 
grating  of  bolts  and  bars,  as  the  jailer  opened  his 
prison-door.  A  moment  afterward,  his  former 
colleague,  De  Harley,  stood  at  his  side. 

"  Thou  here !  "  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  sur- 
prised at  the  visit.  "  Thou  in  the  dungeon  of  a 
heretic  !  On  what  errand  hast  thou  come  ?  " 

"  On  an  errand  of  mercy,"  replied  De  Har- 
ley. "  I  come  to  tell  thee " 

"  That  the  hour  of  my  death  draws  near  ?  " 

"  That  thou  mayst  still  be  saved." 

"  Yes  ;  if  I  will  bear  false  witness  against  my 
God, — barter  heaven  for  earth, —  an  eternity 
for  a  few  brief  days  of  worldly  existence.  Lost, 
thou  shouldst  say,  —  lost,  not  saved  !  " 

"No  !  saved  !  "  cried  De  Harley  with  warmth ; 
"  saved  from  a  death  of  shame  and  an  eternity 
of  woe  !  Renounce  this  false  doctrine,  —  this 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  131 

abominable  heresy,  —  and  return  again  to  the 
bosom  of  the  church  which  thou  dost  rend  with 
strife  and  dissension." 

"  God  judge  between  thee  and  me,  which  has 
embraced  the  truth." 

"  His  hand  already  smites  thee." 

"  It  has  fallen  more  heavily  upon  those  who 
so  unjustly  persecute  me.  Where  is  the  king  ?  — 
he  who  said  that  with  his  own  eyes  he  would 
behold  me  perish  at  the  stake  ?  —  he  to  whom 
the  undaunted  Du  Faur  cried,  like  Elijah  to 
Ahab,  '  It  is  thou  who  troubles!  Israel  ! '  — 
Where  is  the  king  ?  Called,  through  a  sudden 
and  violent  death,  to  the  judgment-seat  of  Heav- 
en !  —  Where  is  Minard,  the  persecutor  of  the 
just  ?  Slain  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin !  It 
was  not  without  reason  that  I  said  to  him,  when 
standing  before  my  accusers,  c  Tremble  !  believe 
the  word  of  one  who  is  about  to  appear  before 
God  ;  thou  likewise  shalt  stand  there  soon,  — 
thou  that  sheddest  the  blood  of  the  children 
of  peace.'  He  has  gone  to  his  account  be- 
fore me." 

"  And  that  menace  has  hastened  thine  own 
condemnation.  Minard  was  slain  by  the  Hugue- 
nots, and  it  is  whispered  that  thou  wast  privy  to 
his  death." 


132  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

"  This,  at  least,  might  have  been  spared  a  dying 
man  !  "  replied  the  prisoner,  much  agitated  by  so 
unjust  and  so  unexpected  an  accusation.  "As 
I  hope  for  mercy  hereafter,  I  am  innocent  of 
the  blood  of  this  man,  and  of  all  knowledge 
of  so  foul  a  crime.  But,  tell  me,  hast  thou  come 
here  only  to  embitter  my  last  hours  with  such 
an  accusation  as  this  ?  If  so,  I  pray  thee,  leave 
me.  My  moments  are  precious.  I  would  be 
alone." 

"  I  came  to  offer  thee  life,  freedom,  and  hap- 
piness." 

' '  Life,  —  freedom,  —  happiness  !  At  the  price 
thou  hast  set  upon  them,  I  scorn  them  all !  Had 
the  apostles  and  martyrs  of  the  early  Christian 
church  listened  to  such  paltry  bribes  as  these, 
where  were  now  the  faith  in  which  we  trust  ? 
These  holy  men  of  old  shall  answer  for  me. 
Hear  what  Justin  Martyr  says,  in  his  earnest 
appeal  to  Antonine  the  Pious,  in  behalf  of  the 
Christians  who  in  his  day  were  unjustly  loaded 
with  public  odium  and  oppression." 

He  opened  the  volume  before  him  and  read  :  — 

"  I  could  wish  you  would  take  this  also  into 
consideration,  that  what  we  say  is  really  for  your 
own  good  ;  for  it  is  in  our  power  at  any  time  to 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    PIKE.  133 

escape  your  torments  by  denying  the  faith,  when 
von  question  us  about  it :  but  we  scorn  to  pur- 
chase fife  at  the  expense  of  a  fie ;  for  our  souls 
are  winged  with  a  desire  of  a  fife  of  eternal  dura- 
tion and  purity,  of  an  immediate  conversation 
with  God,  the  Father  and  Maker  of  afl  thins?. 
\Ve  are  in  haste  to  be  confessing  and  finishing 
our  fahh;  being  fully  persuaded  that  we  shall 
arrive  at  this  blessed  state,  if  we  approve  our- 
selves to  God  by  our  works,  and  by  our  obedi- 
ence express  our  passion  for  that  divine  fife  which 
is  never  interrupted  by  any  rbyhmg  evil." 

The  Catholic  and  the  Huguenot  reasoned  long 
and  earnestly  together ;  but  they  reasoned  in  vain. 
Each  was  firm  in  his  belief;  and  they  parted  to 
meet  no  more  on  earth. 

On  the  following  day,  Du  Bourr  was  sum- 
moned before  bis  judges  to  receive  his  final  sen- 
tence. He  heard  it  unmoved,  and  with  a  prayer 
to  God  that  he  would  pardon  those  who  had  con- 
demned him  according  to  their  consciences. 
He  then  addressed  his  judges  in  an  oration  full 
of  power  and  eloquence.  It  closed  with  these 
words:  — 

"And  now,  ye  judges,  if,  indeed,  you  bold  the 
sword  of  God  as  ministers  of  his  wrath,  to  take 


134  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

vengeance  upon  those  who  do  evil,  beware,  I 
charge  you,  heware  how  you  condemn  us.  Con- 
sider well  what  evil  we  have  done  ;  and,  before  all 
things,  decide  whether  it  be  just  that  we  should 
listen  unto  you  rather  than  unto  God.  Are  you 
so  drunken  with  the  wine-cup  of  the  great  sor- 
ceress, that  you  drink  poison  for  nourishment  ? 
Are  you  not  those  who  make  the  people  sin, 
by  turning  them  away  from  the  service  of  God  ? 
And  if  you  regard  more  the  opinion  of  men 
than  that  of  Heaven,  in  what  esteem  are  you 
held  by  other  nations,  and  principalities,  and 
powers,  for  the  martyrdoms  you  have  caused 
in  obedience  to  this  blood-stained  Phalaris  ? 
God  grant,  thou  cruel  tyrant,  that  by  thy  miser- 
able death  thou  mayst  put  an  end  to  our  groans  ! 

"  Why  weep  ye  ?  What  means  this  delay  ? 
Your  hearts  are  heavy  within  you, — your  con- 
sciences are  haunted  by  the  judgment  of  God. 
And  thus  it  is  that  the  condemned  rejoice  in  the 
fires  you  have  kindled,  and  think  they  never  live 
better  than  in  the  midst  of  consuming  flames. 
Torments  affright  them  not,  —  insults  enfeeble 
them  not  ;  their  honor  is  redeemed  by  death,  — 
he  that  dies  is  the  conqueror,  and  the  conquered 
he  that  mourns. 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    PIKE.  135 

"  No !  whatever  snares  are  spread  for  us, 
whatever  suffering  we  endure,  you  cannot  separ- 
ate us  from  the  love  of  Christ.  Strike,  then,  — 
sky, — grind  us  to  powder!  Those  that  die 
in  the  Lord  shall  live  again ;  we  shall  all  he  raised 
together.  Condemn  me  as  you  will,  —  I  am  a 
Christian  ;  yes,  I  am  a  Christian,  and  am  ready 
to  die  for  the  dory  of  our  Lord,  —  for  the  truth 
of  the  Evangelists. 

14  Quench,  then,  your  fires  !  Let  the  wicked 
abandon  his  way,  and  return  unto  the  Lord, 
and  he  will  hare  compassion  on  him.  Live,  — 
he  happy,  —  and  meditate  on  God,  ye  judges  ! 
As  for  me,  I  go  rejoicing  to  my  death.  What 
wait  ye  for  ?  Lead  me  to  the  scaffold  !  " 

They  bound  the  prisoner's  hands,  and,  leading 
him  forth  from  the  council-chamber,  placed  him 
upon  the  cart  that  was  to  bear  him  to  the  Place 
de  Greve.  Before  and  behind  marched  a  guard 
of  five  hundred  soldiers  ;  for  Du  Bourg  was 
beloved  by  the  people,  and  a  popular  tumult  was 
apprehended.  The  day  was  overcast  and  sad  ; 
and  ever  and  anon  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell 
mingled  hs  dismal  clang  with  the  solemn  notes 
of  the  funeral  march.  They  soon  reached  the 
place  of  execution,  which  was  already  fiued 


136  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

with  a  dense  and  silent  crowd.  In  the  centre 
stood  the  gallows,  with  a  pile  of  fagots  beneath 
it,  and  the  hangman  with  a  burning  torch  in  his 
hand.  But  this  funeral  apparel  inspired  no  terror 
in  the  heart  of  Du  Bourg.  A  look  of  triumph 
beamed  from  his  eye,  and  his  countenance  shone 
like  that  of  an  angel.  With  his  own  hands  he 
divested  himself  of  his  outer  garments,  and,  gaz- 
ing round  upon  the  breathless  and  sympathizing 
crowd,  exclaimed,  — 

"  My  friends,  I  come  not  hither  as  a  thief  or  a 
murderer  ;  but  it  is  for  the  Gospel's  sake  !  " 

A  cord  was  then  fastened  round  his  waist, 
and  he  was  drawn  up  into  the  ah*.  At  the  same 
moment  the  burning  torch  of  the  executioner 
was  applied  to  the  fagots  beneath,  and  the  thick 
volumes  of  smoke  concealed  the  martyr  from 
the  horror-stricken  crowd.  One  stifled  groan 
arose  from  all  that  vast  multitude,  like  the  moan 
of  the  sea,  and  all  was  hushed  again ;  save  the 
crackling  of  the  fagots,  and  at  intervals  the  fu- 
neral knell,  that  smote  the  very  soul.  The 
quivering  flames  darted  upward  and  around  ;  and 
an  agonizing  cry  broke  from  the  murky  cloud,  — 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I 
forsake  not  thee  !  " 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  137 

The  wind  lifted  the  reddening  smoke  like  a 
veil,  and  the  form  of  the  martyr  was  seen  to 
fall  into  the  fire  beneath.  In  a  moment  it  rose 
again,  its  garments  all  in  flame  ;  and  again  the 
faint,  half-smothered  cry  of  agony  was  heard,  — 

"  My  God  !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I 
forsake  not  thee  !  " 

Once  more  the  quivering  body  descended  into 
the  flames  ;  and  once  more  it  was  lifted  into  the 
air,  a  blackened,  burning  cinder.  Again  and 
again  this  fiendish  mockery  of  baptism  was  re- 
peated ;  till  the  martyr,  with  a  despairing,  suffo- 
cating voice,  exclaimed,  — 

"  O  God  !  I  cannot  die  !  " 

The  chief  executioner  came  forward,  and, 
either  in  mercy  to  the  dying  man  or  through 
fear  of  the  populace,  threw  a  noose  over  his  neck, 
and  strangled  the  almost  lifeless  victim.  At  the 
same  moment  the  cord  which  held  the  body  was 
loosened,  and  it  fell  into  the  fire  to  rise  no  more. 
And  thus  was  consummated  the  martyrdom  of  the 
Baptism  of  Fire. 


COQ-A-L'ANE. 


My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass, 
Wherein  my  imaginations  run  like  sands, 
Filling  up  time  ;  but  then  are  turned,  and  turned, 
So  that  I  know  not  what  to  stay  upon, 
And  less  to  put  in  art. 

BEN  JONSON. 


A  RAINY  and  gloomy  winter  was  just  drawing 
to  its  close,  when  I  left  Paris  for  the  South  of 
France.  We  started  at  sunrise  ;  and  as  we 
passed  along  the  solitary  streets  of  the  vast  and 
silent  metropolis,  drowsily  one  by  one  its  clang- 
ing horologes  chimed  the  hour  of  six.  Beyond 
the  city-gates  the  wide  landscape  was  covered 
with  a  silvery  network  of  frost ;  a  wreath  of 
vapor  overhung  the  windings  of  the  Seine  ;  and 
every  twig  and  shrub,  with  its  sheath  of  crystal, 
flashed  in  the  level  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  The 
sharp,  frosty  air  seemed  to  quicken  the  sluggish 
blood  of  the  old  postilion  and  his  horses  ;  —  a 
fresh  team  stood  ready  in  harness  at  each  stage  ; 


COQ-A-L'ANE.  139 

and  notwithstanding  the  slippery  pavement  of  the 
causeway,  the  long  and  tedious  climbing  the  hill- 
side upward,  and  the  equally  long  and  tedious 
descent  with  chained  wheels  and  the  drag,  just 
after  nightfall  the  lumbering  vehicle  of  Vincent 
Caillard  stopped  at  the  gateway  of  the  "  Three 
Emperors,"  in  the  famous  city  of  Orleans. 

I  cannot  pride  myself  much  upon  being  a  good 
travelling-companion,  for  the  rocking  of  a  coach 
always  lulls  me  into  forgetfulness  of  the  present ; 
and  no  sooner  does  the  hollow,  monotonous  rum- 
bling of  the  wheels  reach  my  ear,  than,  like  Nick 
Bottom,  "  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come 
upon  me."  It  is  not,  however,  the  deep,  sono- 
rous slumber  of  a  laborer,  "  stufied  with  dis- 
tressful bread,"  but  a  kind  of  day-dream,  where- 
in the  creations  of  fancy  seem  realities,  and  the 
real  world,  which  swims  dizzily  before  the  half- 
shut,  drowsy  eye,  becomes  mingled  with  the 
imaginary  world  within.  This  is  doubtless  a 
very  g*eat  failing  in  a  traveller  ;  and  I  confess, 
widi  all  humility,  that  at  times  the  line  of  demar- 
kation  between  truth  and  fiction  is  rendered  there- 
by so  indefinite  and  indistinct,  that  I  cannot  al- 
ways determine,  with  unerring  certainty,  whether 
an  event  really  happened  to  me,  or  whether  I 
only  dreamed  it. 


140 

On  this  account  I  shall  not  attempt  a  detailed 
description  of  my  journey  from  Paris  to  Bor- 
deaux. I  was  travelling  like  a  bird  of  passage  ; 
and  five  weary  days  and  four  weary  nights  I 
was  on  the  way.  The  diligence  stopped  only 
to  change  horses,  and  for  the  travellers  to  take 
their  meals  ;  and  by  night  I  slept  with  my  head 
under  my  wing  in  a  snug  corner  of  the  coach. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some  of  my  read- 
ers, this  night-travelling  is  at  times  far  from  be- 
ing disagreeable  ;  nay,  if  the  country  is  flat  and 
uninteresting,  and  you  are  favored  with  a  moon, 
it  may  be  very  pleasant.  As  the  night  advances, 
the  conversation  around  you  gradually  dies  away, 
and  is  imperceptibly  given  up  to  some  garrulous 
traveller  who  finds  himself  belated  in  the  midst 
of  a  long  story  ;  and  when  at  length  he  puts 
out  his  feelers  in  the  form  of  a  question,  dis- 
covers, by  the  silence  around  him,  that  the 
breathless  attention  of  his  audience  is  owing  to 
their  being  asleep.  All  is  now  silent.  You  let 
down  the  window  of  the  carriage,  and  the  fresh 
night-air  cools  your  flushed  and  burning  cheek. 
The  landscape,  though  in  reality  dull  and  unin- 
teresting, seems  beautiful  as  it  floats  by  in  the 
soft  moonshine.  Every  ruined  hovel  is  changed 


COQ-A-L'A*E.  141 

by  the  magic  of  night  to  a  trim  cottage,  every 
straggling  and  dilapidated  hamlet  becomes  as 
beautiful  as  those  we  read  of  in  poetry  and  ro- 
mance. Over  the  lowland  hangs  a  silver  mist ; 
over  the  hills  peep  the  twinkling  stars.  The 
keen  night-air  is  a  spur  to  the  postilion  and  his 
horses.  In  the  words  of  the  German  ballad,  — 

"Halloo!  halloo!  away  tb ey  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry, 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  spwkling  pebble,  ly. 
And  all  on  which  the  moon  doth  shine 

Behind  them  flee,  afcr, 
And  backward  sped,  scud  overhead,. 

The  sky  and  every  star." 

Anon  you  stop  at  the  relay.  The  drowsy  hostler 
crawls  out  of  the  stable-yard  ;  a  few  gruff  words 
and  strange  oaths  pass  between  him  and  the  pos- 
tilion. —  then  there  is  a  coarse  joke  in  patois, 
of  which  you  understand  the  ribaldry  only,  and 
which  is  followed  by  a  husky  laugh,  a  sound 
between  a  hiss  and  a  growl  ;  —  and  then  you 
are  off  again  in  a  crack.  Occasionally  a  way- 
traveller  is  uncaged,  and  a  new-comer  takes  the 
vacant  perch  at  your  elbow.  Meanwhile  your 
busy  fancy  speculates  upon  all  these  things,  and 


142  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

you  fall  asleep  amid  its  thousand  vagaries.  Soon 
you  wake  again,  and  snuff  the  morning  air.  It 
was  hut  a  moment,  and  yet  the  night  is  gone. 
The  gray  of  twilight  steals  into  the  window,  and 
gives  a  ghastly  look  to  the  countenances  of  the 
sleeping  group  around  you.  One  sits  bolt  upright 
in  a  corner,  offending  none,  and  stiff  and  motion- 
less as  an  Egyptian  mummy  ;  another  sits  equally 
straight  and  immovable,  but  snores  like  a  priest  ; 
the  head  of  a  third  is  dangling  over  his  shoulder, 
and  the  tassel  of  his  nightcap  tickles  his  neigh- 
bour's ear  ;  a  fourth  has  lost  his  hat,  —  his  wig 
is  awry,  and  his  under-lip  hangs  lolling  about 
like  an  "idiot's.  The  whole  scene  is  a  living 
caricature  of  man,  presenting  human  nature  in 
some  of  the  grotesque  attitudes  she  assumes, 
when  that  pragmatical  schoolmaster,  propriety, 
has  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  the  unruly 
members  of  his  charge  are  freed  from  the  thral- 
dom of  the  rod. 

On  leaving  Orleans,  instead  of  following  the 
great  western  mail-route  through  Tours,  Poitiers, 
and  Angouleme,  and  thence  on  to  Bordeaux, 
I  struck  across  the  departments  of  the  Indre, 
the  Haute-Vienne,  and  the  Dordogne,  pass- 
ing through  the  provincial  capitals  of  Chateau- 


COQ-A-L'ANE.  143 

roux,  Limoges,  and  Perigueux.  South  of  the 
Loire  the  country  assumes  a  more  mountainous 
aspect,  and  the  landscape  is  broken  by  long 
sweeping  hills  and  fertile  valleys.  Many  a  fair 
scene  invites  the  traveller's  foot  to  pause  ;  and 
his  eye  roves  with  delight  over  the  picturesque 
landscape  of  the  valley  of  the  Creuse,  and  the 
beautiful  highland  scenery  near  Perigueux.  There 
are  also  many  objects  of  art  and  antiquity  which 
arrest  his  attention.  Argenton  boasts  its  Roman 
amphitheatre,  and  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle 
built  by  King  Pepin  ;  at  Chalus  the  tower  be- 
neath which  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  was  slain 
is  still  pointed  out  to  the  curious  traveller  ;  and 
Perigueux  is  full  of  crumbling  monuments  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

Scenes  like  these,  and  the  constant  chatter 
of  my  fellow-travellers,  served  to  enliven  the 
tedium  of  a  long  and  fatiguing  journey.  The 
French  are  preeminently  a  talking  people  ;  and 
every  new  object  afforded  a  topic  for  light  and 
animated  discussion.  The  affairs  of  church  and 
state  were,  however,  the  themes  oftenest  touched 
upon.  The  bill  for  the  suppression  of  the  lib- 
erty of  the  press  was  then  under  discussion  in 
the  Chamber  of  Peers,  and  excited  the  most 


144  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

lively  interest  through  the  whole  kingdom.  Of 
course  it  was  a  subject  not  likely  to  be  forgotten 
in  a  stage-coach. 

"  Ah  !  mon  Dieu  !  "  said  a  brisk  little  man, 
with  snow-white  hair  and  a  blazing  red  face,  at 
the  same  time  drawing  up  his  shoulders  to  a  level 
with  his  ears  ;  "the  ministry  are  determined  to 
carry  their  point  at  all  events.  They  mean  to 
break  down  the  liberty  of  the  press,  cost  what 
it  will." 

"  If  they  succeed,"  added  the  person  who  sat 
opposite,  "  we  may  thank  the  Jesuits  for  it.  It 
is  all  their  work.  They  rule  the  mind  of  our 
imbecile  monarch,  and  it  is  their  miserable  policy 
to  keep  the  people  in  darkness." 

"  No  doubt  of  that,"  rejoined  the  first  speaker. 
"  Why,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  I  read  in 
the  Figaro  that  a  printer  had  been  prosecuted 
for  publishing  the  moral  lessons  of  the  Evangelists 
without  the  miracles." 

"Is  it  possible  ? "  said  I.  "  And  are  the 
people  so  stupid  as  thus  patiently  to  offer  their 
shoulders  to  the  pack-saddle  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not !  We  shall  have  another 
revolution." 

"  If  history  speaks  true,  you  have  had  revolu- 


COQ-A-L'ANE.  145 

tions  enough,  during  the  last  century  or  two,  to 
satisfy  the  most  mercurial  nation  on  earth.  You 
have  hardly  been  quiet  a  moment  since  the  day 
of  the  Barricades  and  the  memorable  war  of  the 
pots-de-chambre  in  the  times  of  the  Grand  Conde." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  speak  lightly  of  6*ur  rev- 
olutions, Sir,"  rejoined  the  politician,  growing 
warm.  "  You  must,  however,  confess  that  each 
successive  one  has  brought  us  nearer  to  our  ob- 
ject. Old  institutions,  whose  foundations  lie  deep 
in  the  prejudices  of  a  great  nation,  are  not  to  be 
toppled  down  by  the  springing  of  a  single  mine. 
You  must  confess,  too,  that  our  national  char- 
acter is  much  improved  since  the  days  you  speak 
of.  The  youth  of  the  present  century  are  not 
so  frivolous  as  those  of  the  last.  They  have  no 
longer  that  unbounded  levity  and  light-heartedness 
so  generally  ascribed  to  them.  From  this  cir- 
cumstance we  have  every  thing  to  hope.  Our 
revolutions,  likewise,  must  necessarily  change 
their  character,  and  secure  to  us  more  solid  ad- 
vantages than  heretofore." 

"Luck  makes  pluck,  as  the  Germans  say. 
You  go  on  bravely ;  but  it  gives  me  pain  to  see 
religion  and  the  church  so  disregarded." 

"  Superstition  and  the  church,  you  mean," 
10 


146  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

said  the  gray -headed  man.  "  Why,  Sir,  the 
church  is  nothing  now-a-days  but  a  tumble-down, 
dilapidated  tower  for  rooks  and  daws,  and  such 
silly  birds,  to  build  their  nests  in  !  " 

It  was  now  very  evident  that  I  had  unearthed  a 
radical;  and  there  is  no  knowing  when  his  ha- 
rangue would  have  ended,  had  not  his  voice  been 
drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  wheels,  as  we  en- 
tered the  paved  street  of  the  city  of  Limoges. 

A  breakfast  of  boiled  capon  stuffed  with  truf- 
fles, and  accompanied  by  a  pate  de  Pirigueux^ 
a  dish  well  known  to  French  gourmands,  restored 
us  all  to  good-humor.  While  we  were  at  break- 
fast, a  personage  stalked  into  the  room,  whose 
strange  appearance  arrested  my  attention,  and 
gave  subject  for  future  conversation  to  our  party. 
He  was  a  tall,  thin  figure,  armed  with  a  long 
whip,  brass  spurs,  and  black  whiskers.  He  wore 
a  bell-crowned,  varnished  hat,  a  blue  frock-coat 
with  standing  collar,  a  red  waistcoat,  a  pair  of 
yellow  leather  breeches,  and  boots  that  reached 
to  the  knees.  I  at  first  took  him  for  a  postilion, 
or  a  private  courier  ;  but,  upon  inquiry,  I  found 
that  he  was  only  the  son  of  a  notary  public,  and 
that  he  dressed  in  this  strange  fashion  to  please 
his  own  fancy. 


COQ-A-L'A^E.  147 

As  soon  as  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the 
diligence.  I  made  some  remark  on  the  singular 
costume  of  the  personage  whom  I  had  just  seen 
at  the  tavern. 

"  These  things  are  so  common  with  us,"  said 
the  politician,  "  that  we  hardly  notice  themV' 

"  What  you  want  in  liberty  of  speech,  then, 
you  make  up  in  Kberty  of  dress  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  in  this,  at  least,  we  are  a  free  people." 

" 1  had  not  been  long  in  France,  before  I  dis- 
covered that  a  man  may  dress  as  he  pleases, 
without  being  stared  at.  The  most  opposite 
styles  of  dress  seem  to  be  in  vogue  at  the  same 
moment.  No  strange  garment  nor  desperate  hat 
excites  either  ridicule  or  surprise.  French  fash- 
ions are  known  and  imitated  all  the  world  over." 

"  Very  true,  indeed,"  said  a  little  man  in  gos- 
ling-green. "  We  give  fashions  to  all  other 
nations." 

"  Fashions  !  "  said  the  politician,  with  a  kind 
of  growl,  —  "fashions!  Yes,  Sir,  and  some 
of  us  are  simple  enough  to  boast  of  it,  as  if  we 
were  a  nation  of  tailors." 

Here  the  little  man  in  gosling-green  pulled  up 
the  boms  of  his  cotton  shirt-collar. 

"I  recollect,"  said  I,  "that  your   Madame 


148  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

de  Pompadour  in  one  of  her  letters  says  some- 
thing to  this  effect,  — '  We  furnish  our  enemies 
with  hair-dressers,  ribands,  and  fashions ;  and 
they  furnish  us  with  laws.'  " 

"  That  is  not  the  only  silly  thing  she  said  in 
her  lifftime.  Ah  !  Sir,  these  Pompadours,  and 
Maintenons,  and  Montespans  were  the  authors 
of  much  woe  to  France.  Their  follies  and  ex- 
travagances exhausted  the  public  treasury,  and 
made  the  nation  poor.  They  built  palaces,  and 
covered  themselves  with  jewels,  and  ate  from 
golden  plate  ;  while  the  people  who  toiled  for 
them  had  hardly  a  crust  to  keep  their  own  child- 
ren from  starvation  !  And  yet  they  preach  to  us 
the  divine  right  of  kings  !  " 

My  radical  had  got  upon  his  high  horse  again  ; 
and  I  know  not  whither  it  would  have  carried 
him,  had  not  a  thin  man  with  a  black,  seedy  coat, 
who  sat  at  his  elbow,  at  that  moment  crossed 
his  path,  by  one  of  those  abrupt  and  sudden 
transitions  which  leave  you  aghast  at  the  strange 
association  of  ideas  in  the  speaker's  mind. 

"  Apropos  de  bottes !  "  exclaimed  he,  "  speak- 
ing of  boots,  and  notaries  public,  and  such  mat- 
ters, —  excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Sir,  —  a 
little  story  has  just  popped  into  my  head  which 


149 

as  I  am  not  ray 
fond  of  political  discussions,— no  offence,  Sir.— 
I  will  tell  it,  for  the  sake  of  changing  the  conrer- 


Wbereupon.  without  farther  preamble  or  apol- 
oev.  be  proceeded  to  tell  IBS  story  in,  as*  nearly 
as  uidv  be.  the  foDowing  words. 


THE 

NOTARY  OF  PERIGUEUX. 


Do  not  trust  thy  body  with  a  physician.  He  '11  make 
thy  foolish  bones  go  without  flesh  in  a  fortnight,  and  thy  soul 
walk  without  a  body  a  sennight  after. 

SHIRLEY. 


You  must  know,  Gentlemen,  that  there  lived 
some  years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Perigueux,  an 
honest  notary  public,  the  descendant  of  a  very 
ancient  and  broken-down  family,  and  the  occu- 
pant of  one  of  those  old  weather-beaten  tene- 
ments which  remind  you  of  the  times  of  your 
great-grandfather.  He  was  a  man  of  ani  unof- 
fending, quiet  disposition  ;  the  father  of  a  family, 
though  not  the  head  of  it,  —  for  in  that  family 
"  the  hen  over-crowed  the  cock,"  and  the  neigh- 
bours, when  they  spake  of  the  notary,  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  and  exclaimed,  "  Poor  fellow  ! 
his  spurs  want  sharpening."  In  fine,  —  you  un- 
derstand me,  Gentlemen,  —  he  was  hen-pecked. 

Well,  finding  no  peace  at  home,  he  sought 
it  elsewhere,  as  was  very  natural  for  him  to  do  ; 


THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX.  151 

and  at  length  discovered  a  place  of  rest,  far  be- 
yond the  cares  and  clamors  of  domestic  life. 
This  was  a  little  cafe,  estaminet,  a  short  way  out 
of  the  city,  whither  he  repaired  every  evening 
to  smoke  his  pipe,  drink  sugar-water,  and  play 
his  favorite  game  of  domino.  There  he  met 
the  boon  companions  he  most  loved  ;  heard  all 
the  floating  chitchat  of  the  day ;  laughed  when 
he  was  in  merry  mood  ;  found  consolation  when 
he  was  sad  ;  and  at  all  times  gave  vent  to  his 
opinions,  without  fear  of  being  snubbed  short  by  a 
flat  contradiction. 

Now,  the  notary's  bosom-friend  was  a  dealer 
in  claret  and  cognac,  who  lived  about  a  league 
from  the  city,  and  always  passed  his  evenings  at 
the  estaminet.  He  was  a  gross,  corpulent  fel- 
low, raised  from  a  full-blooded  Gascon  breed, 
and  sired  by  a  comic  actor  of  some  reputation 
in  his  way.  He  was  remarkable  for  nothing  but 
his  good-humor,  his  love  of  cards,  and  a  strong 
propensity  to  test  the  quality  of  his  own  liquors 
by  comparing  them  with  those  sold  at  other 
places. 

As  evil  communications  corrupt  good  man- 
ners, the  bad  practices  of  the  wine-dealer  won 
insensibly  upon  the  worthy  notary ;  and  before 


152  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

he  was  aware  of  it,  he  found  himself  weaned 
from  domino  and  sugar-water,  and  addicted  to 
piquet  and  spiced  wine.  Indeed,  it  not  unfre- 
quently  happened,  that,  after  a  long  session  at  the 
estaminet,  the  two  friends  grew  so  urbane,  that 
they  would  waste  a  full  half-hour  at  the  door 
in  friendly  dispute  which  should  conduct  the  other 
home. 

Though  this  course  of  life  agreed  well  enough 
with  the  sluggish,  phlegmatic  temperament  of  the 
wine-dealer,  it  soon  began  to  play  the  very  deuse 
with  the  more  sensitive  organization  of  the  no- 
tary, and  finally  put  his  nervous  system  com- 
pletely out  of  tune.  He  lost  his  appetite,  be- 
came gaunt  and  haggard,  and  could  get  no  sleep. 
Legions  of  blue-devils  haunted  him  by  day,  and 
by  night  strange  faces  peeped  through  his  bed- 
curtains  and  the  nightmare  snorted  in  his  ear. 
The  worse  he  grew,  the  more  he  smoked  and 
tippled  ;  and  the  more  he  smoked  and  tippled,  — 
why,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  worse  he  grew. 
His  wife  alternately  stormed,  remonstrated,  en- 
treated ;  but  all  in  vain.  She  made  the  house 
too  hot  for  him,  —  he  retreated  to  the  tavern  ; 
she  broke  his  long-stemmed  pipes  upon  the  an- 
dirons, —  he  substituted  a  short-stemmed  one, 


THE   NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX.  153 

which,  for  safe  keeping,  he  carried  in  his  waist- 
coat-pocket. 

Thus  the  unhappy  notary  ran  gradually  down 
at  the  heel.  What  with  his  bad  habits  and  his 
domestic  grievances,  he  became  completely  hip- 
ped. He  imagined  that  he  was  going  to  die  ; 
and  suffered  in  quick  succession  all  the  diseases 
that  ever  beset  mortal  man.  Every  shooting 
pain  was  an  alarming  sympton,  —  every  uneasy 
feeling  after  dinner  a  sure  prognostic  of  some 
mortal  disease.  In  vain  did  his  friends  endeav- 
our to  reason,  and  then  to  laugh  him  out  of  his 
strange  whims  ;  for  when  did  ever  jest  or  reason 
cure  a  sick  imagination  ?  His  only  answer  was, 
"  Do  let  me  alone  ;  I  know  better  than  you 
what  ails  me." 

Well,  Gentlemen,  things  were  in  this  state, 
when,  one  afternoon  in  December,  as  he  sat  mop- 
ing in  his  office,  wrapped  in  an  overcoat,  with 
a  cap  on  his  head  and  his  feet  thrust  into  a  pair 
of  furred  slippers,  a  cabriolet  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  a  loud  knocking  without  aroused  him 
from  his  gloomy  revery.  It  was  a  message  from 
his  friend  the  wine-dealer,  who  had  been  sud- 
denly attacked  with  a  violent  fever,  and,  growing 
worse  and  worse,  had  now  sent  in  the  greatest 


154  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

haste  for  the  notary  to  draw  up  his  last  will  and 
testament.  The  case  was  urgent,  and  admitted 
neither  excuse  nor  delay  ;  and  the  notary,  tying 
a  handkerchief  round  his  face,  and  buttoning  up 
to  the  chin,  jumped  into  the  cabriolet,  and  suf- 
fered himself,  though  not  without  some  dismal 
presentiments  and  misgivings  of  heart,  to  be  driv- 
en to  the  wine-dealer's  house. 

When  he  arrived,  he  found  every  thing  in  the 
greatest  confusion.  On  entering  the  house,  he 
ran  against  the  apothecary,  who  was  coming  down 
stairs,  with  a  face  as  long  as  your  arm  ;  and  a  few 
steps  farther  he  met  the  housekeeper  —  for  the 
wine-dealer  was  an  old  bachelor  —  running  up 
and  down,  and  wringing  her  hands,  for  fear  that 
the  good  man  should  die  without  making  his 
will.  He  soon  reached  the  chamber  of  his  sick 
friend,  and  found  him  tossing  about  in  a  paroxysm 
of  fever,  and  calling  aloud  for  a  draught  of  cold 
water.  The  notary  shook  his  head  ;  he  thought 
this  a  fatal  symptom  ;  for  ten  years  back  the 
wine-dealer  had  been  suffering  under  a  species 
of  hydrophobia,  which  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
left  him. 

When  the  sick  man  saw  who  stood  by  his  bed- 
side, he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  exclaimed, — 


THE   NOTAKT    OF    PEUGUEUX.  155 

"  Ah  !  107  dear  friend  !  have  you  come  at 
fast?  You  see  it  is  all  over  with  me.  You 
hare  arrived  just  in  time  to  draw  op  that  —  that 
passport  of  mine.  Ah,  grmtd  diablt!  how  hot 
it  is  here!  Water,  —  water,  —  water  !  Will 
nobody  ore  me  a  drop  of  cold  water  ?  " 

As  the  case  was  an  argent  one,  the  notary 
made  no  delay  in  getting  his  papers  in  readiness  ; 
and  in  a  short  time  the  last  wfll  and  testament 
of  die  wine-dealer  was  drawn  op  in  doe  form, 
the  notary  guiding  the  sick  man's  hand  as  he 
scrawled  his  signature  at  the  bottom. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  the  wine-dealer 
grew  worse  and  worse,  and  at  length  became 
delirious,  mingling  in  his  incoherent  ravings  die 
phrases  of  the  Credo  and  Paternoster  with  the 
shibboleth  of  the  dram-shop  and  die  card-table. 

"Take  care!  take  care!  There,  now — 
Crtdo  in —  Pop !  ting-a-ling-ling  !  give  me  some 
of  mat.  Cent-e-dne  !  Why,  you  old  pubfican, 
this  wine  is  poisoned,  —  I  know  your  tricks  ! 
—  So»ctem  eccUamm  Cm*oKcam—W<&,  wefl, 
we  shall  see.  Imbecile  !  to  have  a  tierce-major 
and  a  seven  of  hearts,  and  discard  the  seven! 
By  St.  Anthony,  capot !  You  are  lurched,  — 
ha!  ha!  I  told  you  so.  I  knew  very  wefl,  — 


156  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

there,  —  there,  —  don't  interrupt  me — Carnis 
resurrectionem  et  vitam  eternam !  " 

With  these  words  upon  his  lips,  the  poor  wine- 
dealer  expired.  Meanwhile  the  notary  sat  cow- 
ering over  the  fire,  aghast  at  the  fearful  scene  that 
was  passing  before  him,  and  now  and  then  striv- 
ing to  keep  up  his  courage  by  a  glass  of  cognac. 
Already  his  fears  were  on  the  alert ;  and  the  idea 
of  contagion  flitted  to  and  fro  through  his  mind. 
In  order  to  quiet  these  thoughts  of  evil  import, 
he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  began  to  prepare  for  re- 
turning home.  At  that  moment  the  apothecary 
turned  round  to  him  and  said,  — 

"  Dreadful  sickly  time,  this  !  The  disorder 
seems  to  be  spreading." 

"  What  disorder  ? "  exclaimed  the  notary, 
with  a  movement  of  surprise. 

"  Two  died  yesterday,  and  three  to-day,"  con- 
tinued the  apothecary,  without  answering  the 
question.  "  Very  sickly  time,  Sir,  — very." 

"  But  what  disorder  is  it  ?  What  disease  has 
carried  off  my  friend  here  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  What  disease  ?  Why,  scarlet  fever,  to  be 
sure." 

"  And  is  it  contagious  ?  " 

"  Certainly  !  " 


THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGCEUX.  157 

"  Then  I  am  a  dead  man ! "  exclaimed  the 
notary,  patting  his  pipe  into  his  waistcoat-pocket, 
and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room  in 
despair.  "  I  am  a  dead  man !  Now  don't 
deceive  me,  —  don't,  will  you?  What  —  what 
are  the  symptoms  ?  " 

"  A  sharp  burning  pain  in  the  right  side,"  said 
the  apothecary. 

"  O,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  come  here  ! " 

In  vain  did  the  housekeeper  and  the  apothecary 
strive  to  pacify  him  ;  —  be  was  not  a  man  to  be 
reasoned  with  ;  be  answered  that  he  knew  his 
own  constitution  better  than  they  did,  and  insisted 
upon  going  home  without  delay.  Unfortunately, 
the  vehicle  be  came  in  had  returned  to  the  city  ; 
and  the  whole  neighbourhood  was  abed  and 
asleep.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  in  the 
world  but  to  take  the  apothecary's  horse,  which 
stood  hitched  at  the  door,  patiently  waning  his 
master's  wffl. 

Well,  Gentlemen,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  our 
notary  mounted  this  raw-boned  steed,  and  set 
forth  upon  his  homeward  journey.  The  night 
was  cold  and  gusty,  and  the  wind  right  in  his 
teeth.  Overhead  the  leaden  clouds  were  beat- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  through  them  the  newly  risen 


158  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

moon  seemed  to  be  tossing  and  drifting  along  like 
a  cock-boat  in  the  surf ;  now  swallowed  up  in  a 
huge  billow  of  cloud,  and  now  lifted  upon  its 
bosom  and  dashed  with  silvery  spray.  The 
trees  by  the  road-side  groaned  with  a  sound  of 
evil  omen ;  and  before  him  lay  three  mortal  miles, 
beset  with  a  thousand  imaginary  perils.  Obedient 
to  the  whip  and  spur,  the  steed  leaped  forward 
by  fits  and  starts,  now  dashing  away  in  a  tre- 
mendous gallop,  and  now  relaxing  into  a  long, 
hard  trot  ;  while  the  rider,  filled  with  symptoms 
of  disease  and  dire  presentiments  of  death,  urged 
him  on,  as  if  he  were  fleeing  before  the  pesti- 
lence! 

In  this  way,  by  dint  of  whistling  and  shouting, 
and  beating  right  and  left,  one  mile  of  the  fatal 
three  was  safely  passed.  The  apprehensions  of 
the  notary  had  so  far  subsided,  that  he  even  suf- 
fered the  poor  horse  to  walk  up  hill  ;  but  these 
apprehensions  were  suddenly  revived  again  with 
tenfold  violence  by  a  sharp  pain  in  the  right  side, 
which  seemed  to  pierce  him  like  a  needle. 

"It  is  upon  me  at  last !  "  groaned  the  fear- 
stricken  man.  "  Heaven  be  merciful  to  me,  the 
greatest  of  sinners  !  And  must  I  die  in  a  ditch, 
after  all  ?  He  !  get  up,  —  get  up  !  " 


THE    KOTARf    OF    FERIGUEUX.  lo'J 

And  away  went  horse  and  rider  at  full  speed, 
—  hurry-scuny,  —  up  hill  and  down,  —  panting 
and  blowing  like  a.  whirlwind.  At  every  leap, 
the  pain  in  the  rider's  side  seemed  to  increase. 
At  first  it  was  a  little  point  like  the  prick  of  a 
needle,  —  then  it  spread  to  the  size  of  a  half- 
franc  piece, — then  covered  a  place  as  large  as 
the  palm  of  your  hand.  It  gained  upon  him 
fast.  The  poor  man  groaned  aloud  in  agony  ; 
faster  and  faster  sped  the  horse  over  the  frozen 
ground,  —  farther  and  farther  spread  the  pain  over 
his  side.  To  complete  the  dismal  picture,  the 
storm  commenced,  —  snow  mingled  with  rain. 
But  snow,  and  rain,  and  cold  were  naught  to 
him ;  for,  though  his  arms  and  legs  were  frozen 
to  icicles,  he  felt  it  not ;  the  fatal  symptom  was 
upon  him  ;  he  was  doomed  to  die,  —  not  of  cold, 
hut  of  scarlet  fever  ! 

At  length,  be  knew  not  how,  more  dead  than 
alive,  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  city.  A  band 
of  ill-bred  dogs,  that  were  serenading  at  a  corner 
of  the  street,  seeing  the  notary  dash  by,  joined 
in  the  hue  and  cry,  and  ran  barking  and  yelping 
at  his  heels.  It  was  now  late  at  night,  and  only 
here  and  there  a  solitary  lamp  twinkled  from  an 
upper  story.  But  on  went  the  notary,  down 


160  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

this  street  and  up  that,  till  at  last  he  reached 
his  own  door.  There  was  a  light  in  his  wife's 
bed-chamber.  The  good  woman  came  to  the 
window,  alarmed  at  such  a  knocking,  and  howl- 
ing, and  clattering  at  her  door  so  late  at  night  ; 
and  the  notary  was  too  deeply  absorbed  in  his 
own  sorrows  to  observe  that  the  lamp  cast  the 
shadow  of  two  heads  on  the  window-curtain. 

"Let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !  Quick  !  quick  ! "  he 
exclaimed,  almost  breathless  from  terror  and 
fatigue. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  come  to  disturb  a  lone 
woman  at  this  hour  of  the  nigfit  ?  "  cried  a  sharp 
voice  from  above.  "  Begone  about  your  busi- 
ness, and  let  quiet  people  sleep." 

"  O,  diable,  diable  !  Come  down  and  let  me 
in  !  I  am  your  husband.  Don't  you  know  my 
voice  ?  Quick,  I  beseech  you  ;  for  I  am  dying 
here  in  the  street !  " 

After  a  few  moments  of  delay  and  a  few  more 
words  of  parley,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
notary  stalked  into  his  domicil,  pale  and  haggard 
in  aspect,  and  as  stiff  and  straight  as  a  ghost. 
Cased  from  head  to  heel  in  an  armor  of  ice,  as 
the  glare  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  him,  he  looked 
like  a  knight-errant  mailed  in  steel.  But  in  one 


THE    NOTART    OF    PERIGUEUX.  161 

place  his  armor  was  broken.  On  his  right  side 
was  a  circular  spot,  as  large  as  the  crown  of  your 
hat,  and  about  as  black  ! 

'•  My  dear  wife ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  more 
tenderness  than  he  had  exhibited  for  many  years, 
"reach  me  a  chair.  My  hours  are  numbered. 
I  am  a  dead  man  !  " 

Alarmed  at  these  exclamations,  his  wife  strip- 
ped off*  bis  overcoat.  Something  fell  from  be- 
neath it,  and  was  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  hearth. 
It  was  the  notary's  pipe !  He  placed  bis  hand 
upon  his  side,  and,  lo  !  it  was  bare  to  the  skin  ! 
Coat,  waiscoat,  and  linen  were  burnt  through  and 
through,  and  there  was  a  buster  on  his  side  as 
large  over  as  your  head  ! 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained,  symptom 
and  all.  The  notary  had  put  bis  pipe  into  his 
pocket,  without  knocking  out  the  ashes  !  And 
so  my  story  ends. 


"  Is  that  aU  ?  "  asked  the  radical,  when  the 
story-teller  had  finished. 

"  That  is  aU." 

"  Well,  what  does  your  story  prove  ?  " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tefl.     AD  I  know  is 
that  the  story  is  true." 
11 


162  THE    NOTARY    OF    PERIGUEUX. 

"  And  did  he  die  ?  "  said  the  nice  little  man 
in  gosling-green. 

"  Yes  ;  he  died  afterward,"  replied  the  story- 
teller, rather  annoyed  by  the  question. 

"  And  what  did  he  die  of  ?  "  continued  gos- 
ling-green, following  him  up. 

"  What  did  he  die  of?  why,  he  died  — of  a 
sudden  !  " 


SPAIN. 


JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 


A  1  issue  de  1'yver  que  le  joly  temps  de  primavere  com- 
mence, et  qu'on  voit  arfores  Terdoyer,  fleurs  espanouir,  et 
qo'on  oil  les  oisillons  chanter  en  toute  joie  et  doulceur,  taut 
qoe  les  verts  bocages  retentissent  de  lews  SODS  et  que  coeurs 
tristes  pensifs  \  dolens  s'en  esjooissent,  s'emeuvent  a  delais- 
ser  deoil  et  toute  tristesse,  et  se  parforcent  k  valoir  mieux. 

LA  PLAISA5TE  HlSTOIRE  DE  GuERIS  DK  MoKGLATZ. 


SOFT-BREATHING  Spring!  how  many  pleasant 
thoughts,  how  many  delightful  recollections,  does 
thy  name  awaken  in  the  mind  of  a  traveller  ! 
Whether  he  has  followed  thee  by  the  banks  of  the 
Loire  or  the  Guadalquivir,  or  traced  thy  foot- 
steps slowly  climbing  the  sunny  slope  of  Alp  or 
Apennine,  the  thought  of  thee  shall  summon  up 
sweet  visions  of  the  past,  and  thy  golden  sun- 
shine and  soft  vapory  atmosphere  become  a  por- 
tion of  his  day-dreams  and  of  him.  Sweet  im- 
ages of  thee,  and  scenes  that  have  oft  inspired 
the  poet's  song,  shall  mingle  in  his  recollections 
of  the  past.  The  shooting  of  the  tender  leaf,  — 
the  sweetness  and  elasticity  of  the  air,  —  the 


166  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

blue  sky,  —  the  fleet-drifting  cloud,  —  and  the 
flocks  of  wild  fowl  wheeling  in  long-drawn  pha- 
lanx through  the  air,  and  screaming  from  their 
dizzy  height,  —  all  these  shall  pass  like  a  dream 
before  his  imagination. 

"  And  gently  o'er  his  memory  come  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  birth  in  thee, 
Like  a  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  tune." 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  this  delightful  season 
of  the  year  that  I  passed  through  the  South  of 
France,  and  took  the  road  of  St.  Jean  de  Luz 
for  the  Spanish  frontier.  I  left  Bordeaux  amid 
all  the  noise  and  gayety  of  the  last  scene  of  Car- 
nival. The  streets  and  public  walks  of  the  city 
were  full  of  merry  groups  in  masks,  —  at  every 
corner  crowds  were  listening  to  the  discordant 
music  of  the  wandering  ballad-singer  ;  and  gro- 
tesque figures,  mounted  on  high  stilts,  and  dressed 
in  the  garb  of  the  peasants  of  the  Landes  of 
Gascony,  were  stalking  up  and  down  like  so 
many  long-legged  cranes  ;  others  were  amusing 
themselves  with  the  tricks  and  grimaces  of  little 
monkeys,  disguised  like  little  men,  bowing  to  the 
ladies,  and  figuring  away  in  red  coats  and  ruffles  ; 
and  here  and  there  a  band  of  chimney-sweeps 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN.  167 

were  staring  in  stupid  wonder  at  the  miracles  of 
a  showman's  box.  In  a  word,  all  was  so  full  of 
mirth  and  merrimake,  that  even  beggary  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  it  was  wretched,  and  glo- 
ried in  the  ragged  masquerade  of  one  poor  holy- 
day. 

To  this  scene  of  noise  and  gayety  succeeded 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  Landes  of  Gas- 
cony.  The  road  from  Bordeaux  to  Bayonne 
winds  along  through  immense  pine-forests  and 
sandy  plains,  spotted  here  and  there  with  a  dingy 
little  hovel,  and  the  silence  is  interrupted  only 
by  the  dismal  hollow  roar  of  the  wind  among  the 
melancholy  and  majestic  pines.  Occasionally, 
however,  the  way  is  enlivened  by  a  market-town 
or  a  straggling  village  ;  and  I  still  recollect  the 
feelings  of  delight  which  I  experienced,  when, 
just  after  sunset,  we  passed  through  the  romantic 
town  of  Roquefort,  built  upon  the  sides  of  the 
green  valley  of  the  Douze,  which  has  scooped 
out  a  verdant  hollow  for  it  to  nestle  in,  amid 
those  barren  tracts  of  sand. 

On  leaving  Bayonne,  the  scene  assumes  a  char- 
acter of  greater  beauty  and  sublimity.  To  the 
vast  forests  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony  succeeds 
a  scene  of  picturesque  beauty,  delightful  to  the 


168  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

traveller's  eye.  Before  him  rise  the  snowy  Pyr- 
enees, —  a  long  line  of  undulating  hills,  — 

"  Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capped  with  helm  of  burnished  gold." 

To  the  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  stretch 
the  delicious  valleys  of  the  Nive  and  A  dour ; 
and  to  the  right  the  sea  flashes  along  the  pebbly 
margin  of  its  silver  beach,  forming  a  thousand 
little  bays  and  inlets,  or  comes  tumbling  in  among 
the  cliffs  of  a  rock-bound  coast,  and  beats  against 
its  massive  barriers  with  a  distant,  hollow,  con- 
tinual roar. 

Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  any  solita- 
ry traveller  who  is  journeying  into  Spain  by  the 
road  I  here  speak  of,  I  would  advise  him  to 
travel  from  Bayonne  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz  on 
horseback.  At  the  gate  of  Bayonne  he  will 
find  a  steed  ready  caparisoned  for  him,  with  a 
dark-eyed  Basque  girl  for  his  companion  and 
guide,  who  is  to  sit  beside  him  upon  the  same 
horse.  This  style  of  travelling  is,  I  believe, 
peculiar  to  the  Basque  provinces  ;  at  all  events, 
I  have  seen  it  nowhere  else.  The  saddle  is 
constructed  with  a  large  frame-work  extending 
on  each  side,  and  covered  with  cushions-;  and 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN.  169 

the  traveller  and  his  guide,  being  placed  on  the 
opposite  extremities,  serve  as  a  balance  to  each 
other.  We  overtook  many  travellers  mounted 
in  this  way,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  rt  a 
mode  of  travelling  far  preferable  to  being  cooped 
up  in  a  diligence.  The  Basque  girls  are  gener- 
ally beautiful  ;  and  there  was  one  of  these  merry 
guides  we  met  upon  the  road  to  Bidart,  whose 
image  haunts  me  still.  She  had  large  and  ex- 
pressive black  eyes,  teeth  like  pearls,  a  rich  and 
sunburnt  complexion,  and  hair  of  a  glossy  black- 
ness, parted  on  the  forehead,  and  falling  down 
behind  in  a  large  braid,  so  long  as  almost  to  touch 
the  ground  with  the  little  riband  that  confined 
rt  at  the  end.  She  wore  the  common  dress  of 
the  peasantry  of  the  South  of  France,  and  a  large 
gypsy  straw  hat  was  thrown  back  over  her  shoul- 
der, and  tied  by  a  riband  about  her  neck.  There 
was  hardly  a  dusty  traveller  in  the  coach  who 
did  not  envy  her  companion  the  seat  he  occupied 
beside  her. 

Just  at  nightfall  we  entered  the  town  of  St. 
Jean  de  Luz,  and  dashed  down  its  narrow  streets 
at  full  gallop.  The  little  madcap  postilion  crack- 
ed his  knotted  whip  incessantly,  and  the  sound 
echoed  back  from  the  high  dingy  walls  like  the 


170  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

report  of  a  pistol.  The  coach-wheels  nearly 
touched  the  houses  on  each  side  of  us  ;  the  idlers 
in  the  street  jumped  right  and  left  to  save  them- 
selves ;  window-shutters  flew  open  in  all  direc- 
tions ;  a  thousand  heads  popped  out  from  cellar 
and  upper  story;  "Sacr-r-re  matin!"  shouted 
the  postilion,  —  and  we  rattled  on  like  an  earth- 
quake. 

St.  Jean  de  Luz  is  a  smoky  little  fishing- 
\own,  situated  on  the  low  grounds  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Nivelle,  and  a  bridge  connects  it  with  the 
faubourg  of  Sibourne,  which  stands  on  the  op- 
posite bank  of  the  river.  I  had  no  time,  how- 
ever, to  note  the  peculiarities  of  the  place,  for 
I  was  whirled  out  of  it  with  the  same  speed  and 
confusion  with  which  I  had  been  whirled  in,  and 
I  can  only  recollect  the  sweep  of  the  road  across 
the  Nivelle,  —  the  church  of  Sibourne  by  the 
water's  edge, —  the  narrow  streets,  —  the  smoky- 
looking  houses  with  red  window-shutters,  and 
"  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  smell." 

I  passed  by  moonlight  the  little  river  Bidasoa, 
which  forms  the  boundary  between  France  and 
Spain  ;  and  when  the  morning  broke,  found  my- 
self far  up  among  the  mountains  of  San  Salva- 
dor, the  most  westerly  links  of  the  great  Pyr- 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN.  171 

enean  chain.  The  mountains  around  me  were 
neither  rugged  nor  precipitous,  but  they  rose  one 
above  another  in  a  long,  majestic  swell,  and  the 
trace  of  the  ploughshare  was  occasionally  visible 
to  their  summits.  They  seemed  entirely  des- 
titute of  forest-scenery ;  and  as  the  season  of 
vegetation  had  not  yet  commenced,  their  huge 
outlines  lay  black,  and  barren,  and  desolate  against 
the  sky.  But  it  was  a  glorious  morning,  and  the 
sun  rose  up  into  a  cloudless  heaven,  and  poured 
a  flood  of  gorgeous  splendor  over  the  mountain 
landscape,  as  if  proud  of  the  realm  he  shone 
upon.  The  scene  was  enlivened  by  the  dashing 
of  a  swollen  mountain-brook,  whose  course  we 
followed  for  miles  down  the  valley,  as  it  leaped 
onward  to  its  journey's  end,  now  breaking  into 
a  white  cascade,  and  now  foaming  and  chafing 
beneath  a  rustic  bridge.  Now  and  then  we  rode 
through  a  dilapidated  town,  with  a  group  of  idlers 
at  every  comer,  wrapped  in  tattered  brown  cloaks, 
and  smoking  their  little  paper  cigars  in  the  sun  ; 
then  would  succeed  a  desolate  tract  of  country, 
cheered  only  by  die  tinkle  of  a  mule-bell,  or  the 
song  of  a  muleteer  ;  then  we  would  meet  a  sol- 
itary traveller  mounted  on  horseback,  and  wrap- 
ped in  the  ample  folds  of  his  cloak,  with  a  gun 


172  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

hanging  at  the  pommel  of  his  saddle.  Occasion- 
ally, too,  among  the  bleak,  inhospitable  hills,  we 
passed  a  rude  little  chapel,  with  a  cluster  of 
ruined  cottages  around  it  ;  and  whenever  our 
carriage  stopped  at  the  relay,  or  loitered  slowly 
up  the  hill-side,  a  crowd  of  children  would  gather 
around  us,  with  little  images  and  crucifixes  for 
sale,  curiously  ornamented  with  ribands  and  little 
bits  of  tawdry  finery. 

A  day's  journey  from  the  frontier  brought  us 
to  Vitoria,  where  the  diligence  stopped  for  the 
night.  I  spent  the  scanty  remnant  of  daylight 
in  rambling  about  the  streets  of  the  city,  with 
no  other  guide  but  the  whim  of  the  moment. 
Now  I  plunged  down  a  dark  and  narrow  alley, 
now  emerged  into  a  wide  street  or  a  spacious 
market-place,  and  now  aroused  the  drowsy  ech- 
oes of  a  church  or  cloister  with  the  sound  of  my 
intruding  footsteps.  But  descriptions  of  churches 
and  public  squares  are  dull  and  tedious  matters 
for  those  readers  who  are  in  search  of  amuse- 
ment, and  not  of  instruction  ;  and  if  any  one  has 
accompanied  me  thus  far  on  my  fatiguing  journey 
towards  the  Spanish  capital,  I  will  readily  excuse 
him  from  the  toil  of  an  evening  ramble  through 
the  streets  of  Vitoria. 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN.  173 

On  the  following  morning,  we  left  the  town, 
long  before  daybreak,  and  during  our  forenoon's 
journey  the  postilion  drew  up  at  an  inn,  on  the 
southern  slope  of  the  Sierra  de  San  Lorenzo, 
in  the  province  of  Old  Castile.  The  house  was 
an  old,  dilapidated  tenement,  built  of  rough  stone, 
and  coarsely  plastered  upon  the  outside.  The 
tiled  roof  had  long  been  the  sport  of  wind  and 
rain,  the  motley  coat  of  plaster  was  broken  and 
time-worn,  and  the  whole  building  sadly  out  of 
repair  ;  though  the  fanciful  mouldings  under  the 
eaves,  and  the  curiously  carved  wood-work  that 
supported  the  little  balcony  over  the  principal 
entrance,  spoke  of  better  days  gone  by.  The 
whole  building  reminded  me  of  a  dilapidated 
Spanish  Don,  down  at  the  heel  and  out  at  el- 
bows, but  with  here  and  there  a  remnant  of  for- 
mer magnificence  peeping  through  the  loopholes 
of  his  tattered  cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into  the 
interior  of  the  building,  and  conducted  him  to  a 
low-roofed  apartment,  paved  with  round  stones, 
and  serving  both  as  a  court-yard  and  a  stable. 
It  seemed  to  be  a  neutral  ground  for  man  and 
beast,  —  a  little  republic,  where  horse  and  rid- 
er had  common  privileges,  and  mule  and  mu- 


174  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

leteer  lay  cheek  by  jowl.  In  one  corner  a  poor 
jackass  was  patiently  devouring  a  bundle  of  musty 
straw,  —  in  another,  its  master  lay  sound  asleep, 
with  his  saddle-cloth  for  a  pillow  ;  here  a  group 
of  muleteers  were  quarrelling  over  a  pack  of  dir- 
ty cards,  —  and  there  the  village  barber,  with  a 
self-important  air,  stood  laving  the  alcalde's  chin 
from  the  helmet  of  Mambrino.  On  the  wall,  a 
little  taper  glimmered  feebly  before  an  image 
of  St.  Anthony  ;  directly  opposite  these  a  leath- 
ern wine-bottle  hung  by  the  neck  from  a  pair 
of  ox -horns  ;  and  the  pavement  below  was  cov- 
ered with  a  curious  medley  of  boxes,  and  bags, 
and  cloaks,  and  pack-saddles,  and  sacks  of  grain, 
and  skins  of  wine,  and  all  kinds  of  lumber. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the 
inn-kitchen.  It  was  a  room  about  ten  feet  square, 
and  literally  all  chimney  ;  for  the  hearth  was  in 
the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  the  walls  sloped  up- 
ward in  the  form  of  a  long,  narrow  pyramid, 
with  an  opening  at  the  top  for  the  escape  of  the 
smoke.  Quite  round  this  little  room  ran  a  row 
of  benches,  upon  which  sat  one  or  two  grave 
personages  smoking  paper  cigars.'  Upon  the 
hearth  blazed  a  handful  of  fagots,  whose  bright 
flame  danced  merrily  among  a  motley  congrega- 


THE    JODRIfET    INTO    SPAIN.  175 

lion  of  pots  and  kettles,  and  a  long  wreath  of 
smoke  wound  lazily  op  through  the  huge  tunnel 
of  the  roof  above.  The  walls  were  black  with 
soot,  and  ornamented  with  sundry  legs  of  bacon 
and  festoons  of  sausages  ;  and  as  there  were  no 
windows  in  this  dingy  abode,  the  only  light  which 
cheered  the  darkness  within  came  flickering  from 
the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  smoky  sun- 
beams that  peeped  down  the  long-necked  chimney. 
I  bad  not  been  long  seated  by  the  fire,  when 
the  tinkling  of  mule-bells,  the  clatter  of  hoofs, 
and  the  hoarse  voice  of  a  muleteer  in  the  outer 
apartment,  announced  the  arrival  of  new  guests. 
A  few  moments  afterward  the  kitchen-door  open- 
ed, and  a  person  entered,  whose  appearance 
strongly  arrested  my  attention.  It  was  a  tall, 
athletic  figure,  with  the  majestic  carriage  of  a 
grandee,  and  a  dark,  sunburnt  countenance,  that 
indicated  an  age  of  about  fifty  years.  His  dress 
was  singular,  and  such  as  I  had  not  before  seen. 
He  wore  a  round  hat  with  wide,  flapping  brim, 
frcra  beneath  which  his  long,  black  hair  hung 
in  curls  upon  his  shoulders  ;  a  leather  jerkin, 
with  cloth  sleeves,  descended  to  his  hips ; 
around  his  waist  was  closely  buckled  a  leather 
belt,  with  a  cartouch-box  on  one  side ;  a  pair 


176  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

of  loose  trousers  of  black  serge  hung  in  ample 
folds  to  the  knees,  around  which  they  were  close- 
ly gathered  by  embroidered  garters  of  blue  silk  ; 
and  black  broadcloth  leggins,  buttoned  close  to 
the  calves,  and  strapped  over  a  pair  of  brown 
leather  shoes,  completed  the  singular  dress  of  the 
stranger.  He  doffed  his  hat  as  he  entered,  and, 
saluting  the  company  with  a  "  Dios  guarde  a 
Ustedes,  caballeros "  (God  guard  you,  Gentle- 
men), took  a  seat  by  the  fire,  and  entered  into 
conversation  with  those  around  him. 

As  my  curiosity  was  not  a  little  excited  by  the 
peculiar  dress  of  this  person,  I  inquired  of  a 
travelling  companion,  who  sat  at  my  elbow,  who 
and  what  this  new-comer  was.  From  him  I 
learned  that  he  was  a  muleteer  of  the  Maraga- 
teria,  —  a  name  given  to  a  cluster  of  small  towns 
which  lie  in  the  mountainous  country  between 
Astorga  and  Villafranca,  in  the  western  corner 
of  the  kingdom  of  Leon. 

"Nearly  every  province  in  Spain,"  said  he, 
"  has  its  peculiar  costume,  as  you  will  see,  when 
you  have  advanced  farther  into  our  country. 
For  instance,  the  Catalonians  wear  crimson  caps, 
hanging  down  upon  the  shoulder  like  a  sack  ; 
wide  pantaloons  of  green  velvet,  long  enough 


THE   JOUBJfET   OTTO    SFU3T.  177 

in  the  waistband  to  cover  die  whole  breast ;  and 
a  little  strip  of  a  jacket,  made  of  die  same  ma- 
terial, and  so  short  as  to  bring  the  pocket  directly 
under  die  armpit.  The  Yakncians,  on  die  con- 
trary, go  almost  naked  :  a  linen  shirt,  white  linen 
trousers,  reaching  no  lower  than  the  knees,  and 
a  pair  of  coarse  leather  sandals  complete  their 
ample  garb  ;  it  is  only  in  mid-winter  diat  they 
in  the  luxury  of  a  jacket.  The  most 
and  expensive  costume,  however,  b 
that  of  Andalnsb  :  it  consists  of  a  velvet  jacket, 
faced  with  rich  and  various-colored  embroidery, 
and  covered  widi  tassels  and  silken  cord ;  a  waist- 
coat of  some  gay  color ;  a  silken  handkerchief 
round  die  neck,  and  a  crimson  sash  round  die 
waist;  breeches  that  button  down  each  side; 
gaiters  and  shoes  of  white  leather ;  and  a  band- 
kerchief  of  bright-colored  suk  wound  about  the 
bead  like  a  turban,  and  surmounted  by  a  velvet 
cap  or  a  little  round  bat,  with  a  wide  band,  and 
an  abundance  of  silken  loops  and  tassels.  The 
Old  Castilians  are  more  grave  in  dieir  attire :  they 
wear  a  leather  breastplate  instead  of  a  jacket, 
breeches  and  leggins,  and  a  montera  cap.  This 
feflow  b  a  Maragato ;  and  in  die  villages  of  die 
12 


178  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

Maragateria  the  costume  varies  a  little  from  the 
rest  of  Leon  and  Castile." 

"  If  he  is  indeed  a  Maragato,"  said  I,  jesting- 
ly, "  who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  descendant 
of  the  muleteer  who  behaved  so  naughtily  at 
Cacabelos,  as  related  in  the  second  chapter  of  the 
veracious  history  of  Gil  Bias  de  Santillana  ?  " 

"  ^  Qw'en  sale  9  "  was  the  reply.  u  Not- 
withstanding the  pride  which  even  the  meanest 
Castilian  feels  in  counting  over  a  long  line  of 
good-for-nothing  ancestors,  the  science  of  gene- 
alogy has  become  of  late  a  very  intricate  study 
in  Spain." 

Here  our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the 
mayoral  of  the  diligence,  who  came  to  tell  us 
that  the  mules  were  waiting  ;  and  before  many 
hours  had  elapsed,  we  were  scrambling  through 
the  square  of  the  ancient  city  of  Burgos.  On 
the  morrow  we  crossed  the  river  Duero  and  the 
Guadarrama  Mountains,  and  early  in  the  after- 
noon entered  the  "  Heroica  Villa  "  of  Madrid, 
by  the  Puerta  de  Fuencarral. 


SPAIN. 


IT  is  a  beautiful  morning  in  June  ; —  so  beau- 
tiful, that  I  almost  fancy  myself  in  Spain.  The 
tessekted  shadow  of  the  honeysuckle  fies  mo- 
tionless upon  the  floor,  as  if  it  were  a  figure  in 
the  carpet  ~,  and  through  the  open  window  conies 
the  fragrance  of  the  wild-brier  and  the  mock- 
orange,  reminding  me  of  that  soft,  sunny  crane 
where  the  rery  air  b  bdenT  Eke  the  bee.  vim 
sweetness,  and  die  south  wind 


The  birds  are  earoffing  in  the  trees,  and  their 
shadows  flit  across  die  window  as  they  dart  to 
and  fro  m  the  sunshine  ;  while  the  murmur  of  the 
bee,  die  cooing  of  doves  from  the  eaves,  and 
the  whining  of  a  little  humming-bird  that  has 
its  nest  in  the  honeysuckle,  send  up  a  sound 


180  SPAIN. 

of  joy  to  meet  the  rising  sun.  How  like  the 
climate  of  the  South !  How  like  a  summer 
morning  in  Spain  ! 

My  recollections  of  Spain  are  of  the  most 
lively  and  delightful  kind.  The  character  of  the 
soil  and  of  its  inhabitants,  —  the  stormy  moun- 
tains and  free  spirits  of  the  North,  —  the  prodigal 
luxuriance  and  gay  voluptuousness  of  the  South, 
—  the  history  and  traditions  of  the  past,  resem- 
bling more  the  fables  of  romance  than  the  solemn 
chronicle  of  events,  —  a  soft  and  yet  majestic 
language  that  falls  like  martial  music  on  the  ear, 
and  a  literature  rich  in  the  attractive  lore  of  po- 
etry and  fiction,  —  these,  but  not  these  alone, 
are  my  reminiscences  of  Spain.  With  these  I 
recall  the  thousand  little  circumstances  and  en- 
joyments which  always  give  a  coloring  to  our 
recollections  of  the  past ;  the  clear  sky,  —  the 
pure,  balmy  air,  —  the  delicious  fruits  and  flow- 
ers, —  the  wild-fig  and  the  aloe,  —  the  palm-tree 
and  the  olive  by  the  wayside,  —  all,  all  that  makes 
existence  so  joyous,  and  renders  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  that  clime  the  children  of  impulse 
and  sensation. 

As  I  write  these  words,  a  shade  of  sadness 
steals  over  me.  When  I  think  what  that  glorious 


SPAIN.  181 

land  might  be,  and  what  it  is,  —  what  Nature 
intended  it  should  be,  and  what  man  has  made 
it,  —  my  very  heart  sinks  within  me.  My  mind 
instinctively  reverts  from  the  degradation  of  the 
present  to  the  glory  of  the  past ;  or,  looking  for- 
ward with  strong  misgivings,  but  with  yet  stronger 
hopes,  interrogates  the  future. 

The  burnished  armor  of  the  Cid  stands  in 
the  archives  of  the  royal  museum  of  Madrid, 
and  there,  too,  is  seen  the  armor  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabel,  of  Guzman  the  Good  and  Gonzalo 
de  Cordova,  and  of  other  early  champions  of 
Spain  ;  but  what  hand  shah1  now  wield  the  sword 
of  the  Campeador,  or  lift  up  the  banner  of  Leon 
and  Castile  ?  The  ruins  of  Christian  castle  and 
Moorish  alcazar  still  look  forth  from  the  hills  of 
Spain  ;  but  where,  O,  where  is  the  spirit  of  free- 
dom that  once  fired  the  children  of  the  Goth  ? 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio, 
and  Perez  de  Vargas,  and  Alonzo  de  Aguilar  ? 
Shah"  it  for  ever  sleep  ?  Shall  it  never  again 
beat  high  in  the  hearts  of  their  degenerate  sons  ? 
Shall  the  descendants  of  Pelayo  bow  for  ever 
beneath  an  iron  yoke,  "  like  cattle  whose  despair 
is  dumb  ?" 

The  dust  of  the  Cid   lies  mingling  with  the 


182  SPAIN. 

dust  of  Old  Castile  ;  but  his  spirit  is  not  buried 
with  his  ashes.  It  sleeps,  but  is  not  dead.  The 
day  will  come,  when  the  foot  of  the  tyrant  shall 
be  shaken  from  the  neck  of  Spain  ;  when  a  brave 
and  generous  people,  though  now  ignorant,  de- 
graded, and  much  abused,  shah"  "  know  their 
rights,  and  knowing  dare  maintain." 

Of  the  national  character  of  Spain  I  have 
brought  away  this  impression  ;  that  its  prominent 
traits  are  a  generous  pride  of  birth,  a  supersti- 
tious devotion  to  the  dogmas  of  the  Church,  and 
an  innate  dignity,  which  exhibits  itself  even  in 
the  common  and  every-day  employments  of  life. 
Castilian  pride  is  proverbial.  A  beggar  wraps  his 
tattered  cloak  around  him  with  all  the  dignity  of 
a  Roman  senator ;  and  a  muleteer  bestrides  his 
beast  of  burden  with  the  air  of  a  grandee. 

I  have  thought,  too,  that  there  was  a  tinge  of 
sadness  in  the  Spanish  character.  The  national 
music  of  the  land  is  remarkable  for  its  melan- 
choly tone  ;  and  at  times  the  voice  of  a  peasant, 
singing  amid  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  moun- 
tains, falls  upon  the  ear  like  a  funeral  chant. 
Even  a  Spanish  holyday  wears  a  look  of  sad- 
ness, —  a  circumstance  which  some  writers  at- 
tribute to  the  cruel  and  overbearing  spirit  of  the 


SPAOT.  183 

municipal  laws.  "On  the  greatest  festivals," 
says  JoveDanos,  "  instead  of  dot  boisterous  mer- 
riment and  noise  which  should  bespeak  the  joy 
of  die  inhabitants,  there  reigns  throughout  the 
streets  and  market-places  a  slothful  inactivity, 
a  gloomy  stillness,  which  cannot  be  remarked 
without  minded  emotions  of  surprise  and  pity. 
The  few  persons  who  leave  Aeir  houses  seem 
to  be  driven  from  them  by  fisdessness,  and  drag- 
ged as  far  as  the  threshold-  die  market,  or  die 
church-door  ;  there,  muffled  in  their  cloaks,  fam- 
ing against  a  comer,  sealed  on  a  bench,  or  loung- 
ing to  and  fro,  without  object,  aim,  or  purpose, 
they  pass  their  hours,  their  whole  evenings,  with- 
out mirth,  recreation,  or  amusement.  When  you 
add  to  das  picture  die  dreariness  and  film  of  die 
viDages,  die  poor  and  slovenly  dress  of  die  in- 
habitants, the  gloominess  and  silence  of  ifair  air, 
the  laziness,  die  want  of  concert  and  union  so 
striking  everywhere,  who  but  would  be  astonished, 
who  but  would  be  afflicted  by  so  mournful  a  phe- 
nomenon ?  This  is  not,  indeed,  the  place  to  ex- 
pose the  errors  which  conspire  to  produce  it ;  but, 
whatever  those  errors  may  be,  one  point  is  dear, 
—  that  they  are  aD  to  be  found  in  the  laws  ! »  * 


184  SPAIN. 

Of  the  same  serious,  sombre  character  is  the 
favorite  national  sport,  —  the  bull-fight.  It  is  a 
barbarous  amusement,  but  of  all  others  the  most 
exciting,  the  most  spirit-stirring  ;  and  in  Spain, 
the  most  popular.  "  If  Rome  lived  content 
Avith  bread  and  arms,"  says  the  author  I  have 
just  quoted,  in  a  spirited  little  discourse  entitled 
Paw  y  Toros,  "  Madrid  lives  content  with  bread 
and  bulls." 

Shall  I  describe  a  Spanish  bull-fight  ?  No. 
It  has  been  so  often  and  so  well  described  by 
other  pens  that  mine  shall  not  undertake  it,  though 
it  is  a  tempting  theme.  I  cannot,  however,  re- 
fuse myself  the  pleasure  of  quoting  here  a  few 
lines  from  one  of  the  old  Spanish  ballads  upon 
this  subject.  It  is  entitled  "The  Bull-fight  of 
Ganzul."  The  description  of  the  bull,  which 
is  contained  in  the  passage  I  here  extract,  is 
drawn  with  a  master's  hand.  It  is  rather  a  par- 
aphrase than  a  translation,  by  Mr.  Lockhart. 

11  From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes  not  from  Xenil, 
From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  nor  Barves  of  the  hill ; 
But  where  from  out  the  forest  burst  Xarama's  waters  clear, 
Beneath  the  oak-trees  was  he  nursed,  this  proud  and  state- 
ly steer. 


SPAIN.  185 

"  Dark  \s  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood  within  doth 

boil, 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  the 

turmoil. 

His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  snow  : 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of  brass  upon  the 

foe. 

"  Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand  close  and 

near, 
From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like  daggers  they 

appear; 
His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some  old,  knotted 

tree, 
Whereon  the  monster's  shaggy  mane,  like  billows  curled, 

ye  see. 

"  His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his  hoofs  are  black 

as  night ; 
Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail,  in  fierceness  of  his 

might ; 
Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn  from  forth  the 

rock, 
Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  Alcayde's  shock. 

"  Now  stops  the  drum,  —  close,  close  they  come ;  thrice  meet 

and  thrice  give  back  ; 
The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  charger's  breast 

of  black ; 

The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado's  front  of  dun ;  — 
Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance,  —  once   more,  thou 

fearless  one ! " 


186  SPAIN. 

There  are  various  circumstances  closely  con- 
nected with  the  train  of  thought  I  have  here 
touched  upon  ;  but  I  forbear  to  mention  them, 
for  fear  of  drawing  out  this  introductory  chapter 
to  too  great  a  length.  Some  of  them  will  nat- 
urally find  a  place  hereafter.  Meanwhile  let  us 
turn  the  leaf  to  a  new  chapter,  and  to  subjects 
of  a  livelier  nature. 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 


Nedyls,  threde,  thymbell,  shere,  and  all  suche  knackes. 
THE  FOUR  Ps. 


A  TAiLaR's  drawer,  did  you  say  ? 

Yes ;  a  tailor's  drawer.  It  is,  indeed,  rather 
a  quaint  rubric  for  a  chapter  in  the  pilgrim's  brev- 
iary ;  albeit  it  well  befits  the  motley  character 
of  the  following  pages.  It  is  a  title  which  the 
Spaniards  give  to  a  desultory  discourse,  wherein 
various  and  discordant  themes  are  touched  upon, 
and  which  is  crammed  full  of  little  shreds  and 
patches  of  erudition  ;  and  certainly  it  is  not  inap- 
propriate to  a  chapter  whose  contents  are  of  every 
shape  and  hue,  and  "do  no  more  adhere  and 
keep  pace  together  than  the  hundreth  psalm  to 
the  tune  of  Green  Sleeves." 


188  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 


IT  is  recorded  in  the  Adventures  of  Gil  Bias 
de  Santillana,  that,  when  this  renowned  personage 
first  visited  the  city  of  Madrid,  he  took  lodgings 
at  the  house  of  Mateo  Melandez,  in  the  Puerta 
del  Sol.  In  choosing  a  place  of  abode  in  the 
Spanish  court,  I  followed,  as  far  as  practicable, 
this  illustrious  example  ;  but,  as  the  kind-hearted 
Mateo  had  been  long  gathered  to  his  fathers,  I 
was  content  to  take  up  my  residence  in  the  hired 
house  of  Valentin  Gonzalez,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Calle  de  la  Montera.  My  apartments  were  in 
the  third  story,  above  the  dust,  though  not  be- 
yond the  rattle,  of  the  street ;  and  my  balconies 
looked  down  into  the  Puerta  del  Sol,  the  heart 
of  Madrid,  through  which  circulates  the  living 
current  of  its  population  at  least  once  every 
twenty -four  hours. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  a  public  square,  from 
which  diverge  the  five  principal  streets  of  the 
metropolis.  It  is  the  great  rendezvous  of  grave 
and  gay, — of  priest  and  layman,  —  of  gentle  and 
simple,  —  the  mart  of  business  and  of  gossip,  — 
the  place  where  the  creditor  seeks  his  debtor, 
where  the  lawyer  seeks  his  client,  where  the 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  189 

stranger  seeks  amusement,  where  the  friend  seeks 
his  friend,  and  die  foe  his  foe ;  where  the  idler 
seeks  the  sun  in  winter,  and  the  shade  in  sum- 
mer, and  the  busybody  seeks  the  dairy  news,  and 
picks  op  the  crumbs  of  gossip  to  fly  away  with 
them  in  his  beak  to  the  Urtmlia  of  Dona  Paquita ! 
Tell  me,  ye  who  have  sojourned  in  foreign 
lands,  and  know  in  what  bubbles  a  travellers 
happiness  consists,  —  is  it  not  a  blessing  to  have 
your  window  overlook  a  scene  like  this  ? 


THERE, — take  that  chair  upon  the  balcony, 
and  let  us  look  down  upon  the  busy  scene  beneath 
us.  What  a  continued  roar  the  crowded  thor- 
oughfare sends  up  !  Though  three  stories  high, 
we  can  hardly  hear  the  sound  of  our  own  voices  ! 
The  London  cries  are  whispers,  when  compared 
with  the  cries  of  Madrid. 

See,  —  yonder,  stalks  a  gigantic  peasant  of 
New  Castile,  with  a  montera  cap,  brown  jacket 
and  breeches,  and  coarse  blue  stockings,  forcing 
bis  way  through  the  crowd,  and  leading  a  donkey 
laden  with  charcoal,  whose  sonorous  bray  is  in 
unison  with  the  harsh  voice  of  his  master.  Close 
at  his  elbow  goes  a  rosy-cheeked  damsel,  seffing 


190  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

calico.  She  is  an  Asturian  from  the  mountains 
of  Santander.  How  do  you  know  ?  By  her 
short  yellow  petticoats, — her  blue  bodice,  —  her 
coral  necklace  and  earrings.  Through  the  mid- 
dle of  the  square  struts  a  peasant  of  Old  Castile, 
with  his  yellow  leather  jerkin  strapped  about  his 
waist,  —  his  brown  leggins  and  his  blue  garters, — 
driving  before  him  a  flock  of  gabbling  turkeys, 
and  crying,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "Pao,  j?ao, 
parties,  paos  !  "  Next  comes  a  Valencian,  with 
his  loose  linen  trousers  and  sandal  shoon,  holding 
a  huge  sack  of  watermelons  upon  his  shoulder 
with  his  left  hand,  and  with  his  right  balancing 
high  in  air  a  specimen  of  his  luscious  fruit,  upon 
which  is  perched  a  little  pyramid  of  the  crimson 
pulp,  while  he  tempts  the  passers-by  with  "  A 
crtZa,  y  calando  ;  una  sandia  vendo-o-o.  Si  esto 
es  sangre!"  (By  the  slice,  —  come  and  try  it, 
—  watermelon  for  sale.  This  is  the  real  blood  !) 
His  companion  near  him  has  a  pair  of  scales 
thrown  over  his  shoulder,  and  holds  both  arms 
full  of  muskmelons.  He  chimes  into  the  har- 
monious ditty  with  "  Mdo — melo-o-o  —  melon- 
citos  ;  aqu'i  esta  el  azucar ! "  (Melons,  melons  ; 
here  is  the  real  sugar  !)  Behind  them  creeps 
a  slow-moving  Asturian,  in  heavy  wooden  shoes, 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  191 

crying  watercresses  ;  and  a  peasant  woman  from 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  with  a  montera  cock- 
ed up  in  front,  and  a  blue  kerchief  tied  under  her 
chin,  swings  in  each  hand  a  hunch  of  .live  chick- 
ens, —  that  hang  by  the  claws,  head  downwards, 
fluttering,  scratching,  crowing  with  all  their  might, 
while  the  good  woman  tries  to  drown  their  voices 
in  the  discordant  cry  of  "  £  Quicn  me  compra  tin 
gallo, —  tm  par  de  gallinas  ?  "  (Who  buys  a 
cock,  —  a  pair  of  fowls  ?  )  That  tall  fellow  in 
blue,  with  a  pot  of  flowers  upon  his  shoulder,  is  a 
wag,  beyond  all  dispute.  See  how  cunningly  he 
cocks  his  eye  up  at  us,  and  cries,  "  Si  yo  tvricra 
balcon  !  "  (If  I  only  had  a  balcony  !) 

What  next  ?  A  Manchego  with  a  sack  of  oil 
under  his  arm  ;  a  Gallego  with  a  huge  water-jar 
upon  his  shoulders  ;  an  Italian  pedler  with  images 
of  saints  and  madonnas  ;  a  razor-grinder  with  his 
wheel  ;  a  mender  of  pots  and  kettles,  making 
music,  as  he  goes,  with  a  shovel  and  a  firing-pan  ; 
and,  in  fine,  a  noisy,  patchwork,  ever-changing 
crowd,  whose  discordant  cries  mingle  with  the 
rumbling  of  wheels,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the 
clang  of  church-bells  ;  and  make  the  Puerta  del 
Sol,  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  like  a  street  in 
Babylon  the  Great. 


192  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

IV. 

CHITON  !  A  beautiful  girl,  with  flaxen  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  the  form  of  a  fairy  in  a  midsum- 
mer night's  dream,  has  just  stepped  out  on  the 
balcony  beneath  us  !  See  how  coquettishly  she 
crosses  her  arms  upon  the  balcony,  thrusts  her 
dainty  little  foot  through  the  bars,  and  plays 
with  her  slipper !  She  is  an  Andalusian,  from 
Malaga.  Her  brother  is  a  bold  dragoon,  and 
wears  a  long  sword  ;  so  beware  !  and  "  let  not 
the  creaking  of  shoes  and  the  rustling  of  silks 
betray  thy  poor  heart  to  woman."  Her  mother 
is  a  vulgar  woman,  "  fat  and  forty  "  ;  eats  gar- 
lic in  her  salad,  and  smokes  cigars.  But  mind  ! 
that  is  a  secret ;  I  tell  it  to  you  in  confidence. 


THE  following  little  ditty  I  translate  from  tht 
Spanish.     It  is  as  delicate  as  a  dew-drop. 

"  She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace, 
Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 
If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star 
Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  193 

"  Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier, 

Whose  shining  aims  I  see, 
If  steed,  or  sword,  or  battle-field 
Be  half  so  fair  as  she  ! 


'  Tell  me,  thou  swain,  that  guard'st  thy  flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge 
Be  half  so  fair  as  she  !' 


A  MILLER  has  just  passed  by,  covered  with 
flour  from  head  to  foot,  and  perched  upon  the 
tip  end  of  a  little  donkey,  crying  "  Arre  bor- 
rico  I "  and  at  every  cry  swinging  a  cudgel  in 
his  hand,  and  giving  the  ribs  of  the  poor  beast 
what  in  the  vulgar  dialect  is  called  a  cachipor- 
razo.  I  could  not  help  laughing,  though  I  felt 
provoked  with  the  fellow  for  his  cruelty.  The 
truth  is,  I  have  great  regard  for  a  jackass.  His 
meekness,  and  patience,  and  long-suffering  are 
very  amiable  qualities,  and,  considering  his  sit- 
uation, worthy  of  all  praise.  In  Spain,  a  don- 
key plays  as  conspicuous  a  part  as  a  priest  or  a 
village  alcalde.  There  would  be  no  getting  along 
without  him.  And  yet,  who  so  beaten  and 
abused  as  he  ? 

13 


194  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 


HERE  comes  a  gay  gallant,  with  white  kid 
gloves,  a  quizzing-glass,  a  black  cane,  with  a 
white  ivory  pommel,  and  a  little  hat,  cocked 
pertly  on  one  side  of  his  head.  He  is  an  ex- 
quisite fop,  and  a  great  lady's  man.  You  will 
always  find  him  on  the  Prado  at  sunset,  when 
the  crowd  and  dust  are  thickest,  ogling  through 
his  glass,  flourishing  his  cane,  and  humming  be- 
tween his  teeth  some  favorite  air  of  the  Semi- 
ramis,  or  the  Barber  of  Seville.  He  is  a  great 
amateur,  and  patron  of  the  Italian  Opera,  — 
beats  time  with  his  cane,  —  nods  his  head,  and 
cries,  Bravo  !  —  and  fancies  himself  in  love  with 
the  Prima  Donna.  The  height  of  his  ambition 
is  to  be  thought  the  gay  Lothario,  —  the  gal- 
lant Don  Cortejo  of  his  little  sphere.  He  is 
a  poet  withal,  and  daily  besieges  the  heart  of 
the  cruel  Dona  Inez  with  sonnets  and  madri- 
gals. She  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  his  song,  and  is 
inexorable  :  — 

"  Mas  que  no  sea  mas  piadosa 
A  dos  escudos  en  prosa, 
No  puede  ser." 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  195 

VHI. 

WHAT  a  contrast  between  this  personage  and 
the  sallow,  emaciated  being  who  is  now  crossing 
the  street !  It  is  a  barefooted  Carmelite,  —  a 
monk  of  an  austere  order,  —  wasted  by  midnight 
vigils  and  long  penance.  Abstinence  is  written 
on  that  pale  cheek,  and  the  bowed  head  and 
downcast  eye  are  in  accordance  with  the  meek 
profession  of  a  mendicant  brotherhood. 

What  is  this  world  to  thee,  thou  man  of  pen- 
itence and  prayer  ?  What  hast  thou  to  do  with 
all  this  busy,  turbulent  scene  about  thee,  —  with 
all  the  noise,  and  gayety,  and  splendor  of  this 
thronged  city  ?  Nothing.  The  wide  world  gives 
thee  nothing,  save  thy  daily  crust,  thy  crucifix, 
thy  convent-cell,  thy  pallet  of  straw  !  Pilgrim 
of  heaven  !  thou  hast  no  home  on  earth.  Thou 
art  journeying  onward  to  "  a  house  not  made  with 
hands  "  ;  and,  like  the  first  apostles  of  thy  faith, 
thou  takest  neither  gold,  nor  sflver,  nor  brass, 
nor  scrip  for  thy  journey.  Thou  hast  shut  thy 
heart  to  the  endearments  of  earthly  love, —  thy 
shoulder  beareth  .not  the  burden  with  thy  fellow- 
man, — in  all  this  vast  crowd  thou  hast  no  friends. 
no  hopes,  no  sympathies.  Thou  standest  aloof 


196  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

from  man,  —  and  art  thou  nearer  God  ?  I  know 
not.  Thy  motives,  thy  intentions,  thy  desires 
are  registered  in  heaven.  I  am  thy  fellow-man, 
—  and  not  thy  judge. 

"  Who  is  the  greater  ?  "  says  the  German 
moralist  ;  "the  wise  man  who  lifts  himself  above 
the  storms  of  time,  and  from  aloof  looks  down 
upon  them,  and  yet  takes  no  part  therein,  —  or 
he  who  from  the  height  of  quiet  and  repose  throws 
himself  boldly  into  the  battle-tumult  of  the  world  ? 
Glorious  is  it,  when  the  eagle  through  the  beat- 
ing tempest  flies  into  the  bright  blue  heaven  up- 
ward ;  but  far  more  glorious,  when,  poising  in  the 
blue  sky  over  the  black  storm-abyss,  he  plunges 
downward  to  his  aerie  on  the  cliff,  where  cower 
hi&  unfledged  brood,  and  tremble." 


SULTRY  grows  the  day,  and  breathless  !  The 
lately  crowded  street  is  silent  and  deserted,  — 
hardly  a  footfall,  —  hardly  here  and  there  a  sol- 
itary figure  stealing  along  in  the  narrow  strip 
of  shade  beneath  the  eaves  !  Silent,  too,  and 
deserted  is  the  Puerta  del  Sol ;  so  silent,  that 
even  at  this  distance  the  splashing  of  its  fountain 
is  distinctly  audible,  —  so  deserted,  that  not  a 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  197 

living  thing  is  visible  there,  save  the  outstretched 
and  athletic  form  of  a  Galician  water-carrier,  who 
lies  asleep  upon  the  pavement  in  the  cool  shad- 
ow of  the  fountain  !  There  is  not  air  enough 
to  stir  the  leaves  of  the  jasmine  upon  the  bal- 
cony, or  break  the  thin  column  of  smoke  that 
issues  from  the  cigar  of  Don  Diego,  master  of 
the  noble  Spanish  tongue,  y  hombre  de  muthos 
dingolondangos.  He  sits  bolt  upright  between 
the  window  and  the  door,  with  roe  collar  of  his 
snuff-colored  frock  thrown  back  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  his  toes  turned  out  like  a  dancing- 
master,  poring  over  the  Diario  de  Madrid,  to 
learn  bow  high  the  thermometer  rose  yesterday,  — 
what  patron  saint  has  a  festival  to-day,  —  and  at 
what  hour  to-morrow  the  "  King  of  Spain,  Je- 
rusalem, and  the  Canary  Islands  "  will  take  his 
departure  for  the  gardens  of  Aranjuez. 

You  have  a  proverb  in  your  language,  Don 
Diego,  which  says,— 

"  Despnes  de  comer 
Ni  on  sobrescrito  leer" ;  — 

after  dinner  read  not  even  the  superscription  of 
a  letter.  I  shaD  obey,  and  indulge  in  the  exqui- 
site luxurv  of  a  siesta.  I  confess  that  I  love 


198  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

this  after-dinner  nap.  If  I  have  a  gift,  a  voca- 
tion for  any  thing,  it  is  for  sleeping  ;  and  from 
ray  heart  I  can  say  with  honest  Sancho,  "  Blessed 
be  the  man  that  first  invented  sleep  !  "  In  a 
sultry  clime,  too,  where  the  noontide  heat  un- 
mans you,  and  the  cool  starry  night  seems  made 
for  any  thing  but  slumber,  I  am  willing  to  barter 
an  hour  or  two  of  intense  daylight  for  an  hour 
or  two  of  tranquil,  lovely,  dewy  night ! 
Therefore,  Don  Diego,  hasta  la  vista ! 


IT  is  evening  ;  the  day  is  gone ;  fast  gather 
and  deepen  the  shades  of  twilight !  In  the  words 
of  a  German  allegory,  "  The  babbling  day  has 
touched  the  hem  of  night's  garment,  and,  weary 
and  still,  drops  asleep  in  her  bosom." 

The  city  awakens  from  its  slumber.  The  con- 
vent-bells ring  solemnly  and  slow.  The  streets 
are  thronged  again.  Once  more  I  hear  the  shrill 
cry,  the  rattling  wheel,  the  murmur  of  the  crowd. 
The  blast  of  a  trumpet  sounds  from  the  Puerta 
del  Sol,  —  then  the  tap  of  a  drum  ;  a  mounted 
guard  opens  the  way,  —  the  crowd  doff  their 
hats,  and  the  king  sweeps  by  in  a  gilded  coach 
drawn  by  six  horses,  and  followed  by  a  long  train 
of  uncouth,  antiquated  vehicles  drawn  by  mules. 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  199 

The  living  tide  now  sets  towards  the  Prado, 
and  the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  Retire.  Beau- 
tiful are  they  at  this  magic  hour !  Beautiful, 
with  the  almond-tree  in  blossom,  with  the  broad 
green  leaves  of  the  sycamore  and  the  chestnut, 
with  die  fragrance  of  the  orange  and  the  lemon, 
widi  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  flowers,  with  the 
soothing  calm  and  the  dewy  freshness  of  evening ! 

XI. 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  the  Prado  till  the  crowd  is 
gone  and  the  night  far  advanced.  There  musing 
and  alone  I  sit,  and  listen  to  the  lulling  fall  of 
waters  in  their  marble  fountains,  and  watch  the 
moon  as  it  rises  over  the  gardens  of  the  Retiro, 
brighter  than  a  northern  sun.  The  beautiful 
scene  lies  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light,  —  almost 
a  fairy  land.  Occasionally  the  sound  of  a  gui- 
tar, or  a  distant  voice,  breaks  in  upon  my  revery. 
Then  the  form  of  a  monk,  from  the  neighbouring 
convent,  sweeps  by  me  like  a  shadow,  and  dis- 
appears in  the  gloom  of  the  leafy  avenues  ;  and 
far  away  from  die  streets  of  the  city  comes  the 
voice  of  the  watchman  telling  the  midnight  hour. 

Lovely  art  diou,  O  Night,  beneadi  the  skies 
of  Spain  !  Day,  panting  with  heat,  and  laden 


200  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

with  a  thousand  cares,  toils  onward  like  a  beast 
of  burden;  but  Night,  calm,  silent,  holy  Night, 
is  a  ministering  angel  that  cools  with  its  dewy 
breath  the  toil-heated  brow  ;  and,  like  the  Ro- 
man sisterhood,  stoops  down  to  bathe  the  pil- 
grim's feet.  How  grateful  is  the  starry  twilight ! 
How  grateful  the  gentle  radiance  of  the  moon  ! 
How  grateful  the  delicious  coolness  of  "  the  om- 
nipresent and  deep-breathing  air  !  "  Lovely  art 
thou,  O  Night,  beneath  the  skies  of  Spain  ! 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 


I  love  a  ballad  but  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter 
merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and  sung 
lamentably. 

WISTKR'S  TALE. 


How  universal  is  the  love  of  poetry  !  Even- 
nation  has  its  popular  songs,  the  offspring  of  a 
credulous  simplicity  and  an  unschooled  fancy. 
The  peasant  of  the  North,  as  he  sits  by  the  even- 
ing fire,  sings  the  traditionary  ballad  to  his  chil- 
dren, — 

"  Nor  wants  he  gleeful  tales,  while  round 
The  nut-brown  bowl  doth  trot" 

The  peasant  of  the  South,  as  he  lies  at  noon  in 
the  shade  of  the  sycamore,  or  sits  by  his  door 
in  the  evening  twilight,  sings  his  amorous  lay,  and 

listlessly, 

"  On  hollow  quills  of  oaten  straw, 
He  pipeth  melody." 


202      ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

The  muleteer  of  Spain  carols  with  the  early  lark, 
amid  the  stormy  mountains  of  his  native  land. 
The  vintager  of  Sicily  has  his  evening  hymn  ; 
the  fisherman  of  Naples  his  boat-song  ;  the  gon- 
dolier of  Venice  his  midnight  serenade.  The 
goatherd  of  Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol,  —  the 
Carpathian  boor, — the  Scotch  Highlander, — the 
English  ploughboy,  singing  as  he  drives  his  team 
afield,  —  peasant,  —  serf,  —  slave,  —  all,  all  have 
their  ballads  and  traditionary  songs.  Music  is  the 
universal  language  of  mankind,  —  poetry  their 
universal  pastime  and  delight. 

The  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  hold  a  prominent 
rank  in  her  literary  history.  Their  number  is 
truly  astonishing,  and  may  well  startle  the  most 
enthusiastic  lover  of  popular  song.  The  Ro- 
mancero  General  *  contains  upwards  of  a  thou- 
sand ;  and  though  upon  many  of  these  may  justly 
be  bestowed  the  encomium  which  honest  Izaak 
Walton  pronounces  upon  the  old  English  ballad 
of  the  Passionate  Shepherd,  —  "  old-fashioned 
poetry,  but  choicely  good," — yet,  as  a  whole, 
they  are,  perhaps,  more  remarkable  for  their 
number  than  for  their  beauty.  Every  great  his- 

*  Romancero  General,  en  que  ee  contiene  todos  los  Ro- 
mances que  andan  impresos.  4to.  Madrid,  1604. 


ANCIE.NT  SPANISH  BALLADS.      203 

toric  event,  every  marvellous  tradition,  has  its 
popular  ballad.  Don  Roderick,  Bernardo  del 
Carpio,  and  the  Cid  Campeador  are  not  more 
the  heroes  of  ancient  chronicle  than  of  ancient 
song  ;  and  the  imaginary  champions  of  Christen- 
dom, the  twelve  peers  of  Charlemagne,  have 
found  a  historian  in  the  wandering  ballad-singer 
no  less  authentic  than  the  good  Archbishop  Tur- 
pin. 

Most  of  these  ancient  ballads  had  their  origin 
during  the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in  Spain. 
Many  of  them,-  doubtless,  are  nearly  as  old  as 
the  events  they  celebrate  ;  though  in  their  present 
form  the  greater  part  belong  to  the  fourteenth 
century.  The  language  in  which  they  are  now 
preserved  indicates  no  higher  antiquity  ;  but  who 
shall  say  how  long  they  had  been  handed  down 
by  tradition,  ere  they  were  taken  from  the  lips 
of  the  wandering  minstrel,  and  recorded  in  a 
more  permanent  form  ? 

The  seven  centuries  of  the  Moorish  sover- 
eignty in  Spain  are  the  heroic  ages  of  her  his- 
tory and  her  poetry.  What  the  warrior  achieved 
with  his  sword  the  minstrel  published  in  his  song. 
The  character  of  those  ages  is  seen  in  the  char- 
acter of  their  literature.  History  casts  its  shad- 


204  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

ow  far  into  the  land  of  song.  Indeed,  the  most 
prominent  characteristic  of  the  ancient  Spanish 
ballads  is  their  warlike  spirit.  They  shadow 
forth  the  majestic  lineaments  of  the  warlike  ages ; 
and  through  every  line  breathes  a  high  and  pe- 
culiar tone  of  chivalrous  feeling.  It  is  not  the 
piping  sound  of  peace,  but  a  blast,  —  a  loud, 
long  blast  from  the  war-horn,  — 

"  A  trump  with  a  stern  breath, 
Which  is  cleped  the  trump  of  death." 

And  with  this  mingles  the  voice  of  lamentation,  — 
the  requiem  for  the  slain,  with  a  melancholy 
sweetness  :  — 

Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde  ! 

Many  a  corpse  is  bathed  in  thee, 
Both  of  Moors  and  eke  of  Christians, 

Slain  with  swords  most  cruelly. 

And  thy  pure  and  crystal  waters 

Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore  ; 
For  between  the  Moors  and  Christians 

Long  has  been  the  fight  and  sore. 

Dukes  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee, 
Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain, 

Perished  many  a  brave  hidalgo 
Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain. 


SPANISH    BALLADS.  205 

Another  prominent  characteristic  of  these  an- 
cient ballads  is  their  energetic  and  beautiful  sim- 
plicity. A  great  historic  event  is  described  in 
the  fewest  possible  words ;  there  is  no  ornament, 
no  artifice.  The  poet's  intention  was  to  narrate, 
not  to  embellish.  It  is  truly  wonderful  to  ob- 
serve what  force,  and  beauty,  and  dramatic  pow- 
er are  given  to  the  old  romances  by  this  single 
circumstance.  When  Bernardo  del  Carpio  leads 
forth  his  valiant  Leonese  against  the  hosts  of 
Charlemagne,  he  animates  their  courage  by  allud- 
ing to  their  battles  with  the  Moors,  and  exclaims, 
"  Shall  the  lions  that  have  bathed  their  paws  in 
Libyan  gore  now  crouch  before  the  Frank  ? " 
When  he  enters  the  palace  of  the  treacherous 
Alfonso,  to  upbraid  him  for  a  broken  promise, 
and  the  king  orders  him  to  be  arrested  for  con- 
tumely, be  lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword  and 
cries,  "  Let  no  one  stir  !  I  am  Bernardo  ;  and 
my  sword  is  not  subject  even  to  kings ! "  When 
the  Count  Alarcos  prepares  to  put  to  death  his 
own  wife  at  the  king's  command,  she  submits 
patiently  to  her  fate,  asks  time  to  say  a  prayer, 
and  then  exclaims,  "  Now  bring  me  my  infant 
boy,  that  I  may  give  him  suck,  as  my  last  fare- 
well !  "  Is  there  in  Homer  an  incident  more 
touching,  or  more  true  to  nature  ? 


206      ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

The  ancient  Spanish  ballads  naturally  divide 
themselves  into  three  classes:  —  the  Historic, 
the  Romantic,  and  the  Moorish.  It  must  be 
confessed,  however,  that  the  line  of  demarkation 
between  these  three  classes  is  not  well  defined  ; 
for  many  of  the  Moorish  ballads  are  historic, 
and  many  others  occupy  a  kind  of  debatable 
ground  between  the  historic  and  the  romantic. 
I  have  adopted  this  classification  for  the  sake  of 
its  convenience,  and  shall  now  make  a  few  hasty 
observations  upon  each  class,  and  illustrate  my 
remarks  by  specimens  of  the  ballads. 

The  historic  ballads  are  those  which  recount 
the  noble  deeds  of  the  early  heroes  of  Spain  : 
of  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the  Cid,  Martin  Pelaez, 
Garcia  Perez  de  Vargas,  Alonso  de  Aguilar, 
and  many  others  whose  names  stand  conspicuous 
in  Spanish  history.  Indeed,  these  ballads  may 
themselves  be  regarded  in  the  light  of  historic 
documents  ;  they  are  portraits  of  long-departed 
ages,  and  if  at  times  their  features  are  exaggerated 
and  colored  with  too  bold  a  contrast  of  light  and 
shade,  yet  the  free  and  spirited  touches  of  a 
master's  hand  are  recognized  in  all.  They  are 
instinct,  too,  with  the  spirit  of  Castilian  pride, 
with  the  high  and  dauntless  spirit  of  liberty  that 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  207 

burned  so  fiercely  of  old  in  the  heart  of  the 
brave  hidalgo.  Take,  for  example,  the  ballad 
of  the  Five  Farthings.  King  Alfonso  the  Eighth, 
having  exhausted  his  treasury  in  war,  wishes  to 
lay  a  tax  of  five  farthings  upon  each  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  hidalgos,  in  order  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  a  journey  from  Burgos  to  Cuenca.  This 
proposition  of  the  king  was  met  with  disdain  by 
the  noblemen  who  had  been  assembled  on  the 
occasion  :  — 

Don  Nimo,  Count  of  Lara, 

In  anger  and  in  pride, 
Forgot  all  reverence  for  the  king, 

And  thus  in  wrath  replied  :  — 

4  Our  noble  ancestors,'  quoth  he, 

'  Ne'er  such  a  tribute  paid  ; 
Nor  shall  the  king  receive  of  us 

What  they  have  once  gainsaid. 

'  The  base-born  soul  who  deems  it  just 

May  here  with  tbee  remain  ; 
But  follow  me,  ye  cavaliers, 

Y-  noblemen  of  Spain.' 

Forth  followed  they  the  noble  count, 
They  marched  to  Glera's  plain  ; 

Out  of  three  thousand  gallant  knights 
Did  only  three  remain. 


208  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

They  tied  the  tribute  to  their  spears, 

They  raised  it  in  the  air, 
And  they  sent  to  tell  their  lord  the  king 

That  his  tax  was  ready  there. 

'  He  may  send  and  take  by  force,'  said  they, 

'  This  paltry  sum  of  gold  ; 
But  the  goodly  gift  of  liberty 

Cannot  be  bought  and  sold.' 

The  same  gallant  spirit  breathes  through  all 
the  historic  ballads  ;  but,  perhaps,  most  fervently 
in  those  which  relate  to  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 
How  spirit-stirring  are  all  the  speeches  which 
the  ballad-writers  have  put  into  the  mouth  of  this 
valiant  hero  !  "  Ours  is  the  blood  of  the  Goth," 
says  he  to  King  Alfonso;  "sweet  to  us  is  lib- 
erty, and  bondage  odious  !  "  —  "  The  king  may 
give  his  castles  to  the  Frank,  but  not  his  vassals  ; 
for  kings  themselves  hold  no  dominion  over  the 
free  will !  "  He  and  his  followers  would  rather 
die  freemen  than  live  slaves  !  If  these  are  the 
common  watchwords  of  liberty  at  the  present 
day,  they  were  no  less  so  among  the  high-born 
and  high-souled  Spaniards  of  the  eighth  century. 

One  of  the  finest  of  the  historic  ballads  is  that 
which  describes  Bernardo's  march  to  Ronces- 
valles.  He  sallies  forth  "  with  three  thousand 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  209 

Leonese  and  more,"  to  protect  the  glory  and 
freedom  of  his  native  land.  From  all  sides,  the 
peasantry  of  the  land  flock  to  the  hero's  stand- 
ard:— 

The  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield, 

The  reaper  leaves  his  hook, 
And  from  his  hand  the  shepherd-boy 

Lets  fall  the  pastoral  crook. 

The  young  set  up  a  shout  of  jov, 

The  old  forget  their  years, 
The  feeble  man  grows  stout  of  heart, 

No  more  the  craven  fears. 

All  rush  to  Bernard's  standard, 

And  on  liberty  they  call ; 
They  cannot  brook  to  wear  the  yoke, 

When  threatened  by  the  Gaul. 

1  Free  were  we  born,'  't  is  thus  they  cry, 

'  And  willingly  pay  we 
The  duty  that  we  owe  our  king, 

By  the  divine  decree. 

'  But  God  forbid  that  we  obey 

The  laws  of  foreign  knaves, 
Tarnish  the  glory  of  our  sires, 

And  make  our  children  slaves. 

'  Our  hearts  have  not  so  craven  grown, 

So  bloodless  all  our  veins, 
So  vigorless  our  brawny  arms, 

As  to  submit  to  chains. 
14 


210  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

'  Has  the  audacious  Frank,  forsooth, 

Subdued  these  seas  and  lands  ? 
Shall  he  a  bloodless  victory  have  ? 

No ;  not  while  we  have  hands. 

'  He  shall  learn  that  the  gallant  Leonese 

Can  bravely  fight  and  fall ; 
But  that  they  know  not  how  to  yield  ; 

They  are  Castilians  all. 

'  Was  it  for  this  the  Roman  power 

Of  old  was  made  to  yield 
Unto  Numantia's  valiant  hosts, 

On  many  a  bloody  field  ? 

'  Shall  the  bold  lions,  that  have  bathed 

Their  paws  in  Libyan  gore, 
Crouch  basely  to  a  feebler  foe, 

And  dare  the  strife  no  more  ? 

'  Let  the  false  king  sell  town  and  tower, 

But  not  his  vassals  free  ; 
For  to  subdue  the  free-born  soul 

No  royal  power  hath  he  ! ' 

These  short  specimens  will  suffice  to  show  the 
spirit  of  the  old  heroic  ballads  of  Spain  ;  the 
Romances  del  Cid,  and  those  that  rehearse  the 
gallant  achievements  of  many  other  champions, 
brave  and  stalwart  knights  of  old,  I  must  leave 
unnoticed,  and  pass  to  another  field  of  chivalry 
and  song. 


AVCIECT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  211 

The  next  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads 
is  the  Romantic,  including  those  which  relate  to 
the  Twelve  Peers  of  Charlemagne  and  other  im- 
aginary heroes  of  the  days  of  chivalry.  There  is 
an  exaggeration  in  the  prowess  of  these  heroes  of 
romance  which  is  in  accordance  with  the  warmth 
of  a  Spanish  imagination  ;  and  the  ballads  which 
celebrate  their  achievements  stfD  go  from  mouth 
to  mouth  among  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  and  are 
hawked  about  the  streets  by  the  blind  ballad- 
monger. 

Among  the  romantic  •duos,  those  of  the 
Twelve  Peers  stand  preeminent ;  not  so  much 
for  their  poetic  merit  as  for  the  fame  of  then- 
heroes.  In  them  are  sung  the  valiant  knights 
whose  history  b  written  more  at  large  in  the  prose 
romances  of  chivalry,  —  Orlando,  and  Oliver,  and 
Montesinos,  and  Durandarte,  and  the  Marques 
de  Mantua,  and  the  other  paladins,  "  qvt  em  ma 
mesa  comian  pan."  These  ballads  are  of  dif- 
ferent length  and  various  degrees  of  merit.  Of 
some  a  few  tines  only  remain  ;  they  are  evidently 
fragments  of  larger  works  ;  while  others,  on  the 
contrary,  aspire  to  the  length  and  dignity  of  epic 
poems  ;  —  witness  the  ballads  of  the  Conde  de 
Irtos  and  the  Marques  de  Mantua,  each  of  which 


212  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

consists  of  nearly  a  thousand  long  and  sonorous 
hexameters. 

Among  these  ballads  of  the  Twelve  Peers 
there  are  many  of  great  beauty  ;  others  possess 
little  merit,  and  are  wanting  in  vigor  and  concise- 
ness. From  the  structure  of  the  versification,  I 
should  rank  them  among  the  oldest  of  the  Span- 
ish ballads.  They  are  all  monrhythmic,  with  full 
consonant  rhymes. 

To  the  romantic  ballads  belong  also  a  great 
number  which  recount  the  deeds  of  less  celebrat- 
ed heroes  ;  but  among  them  all  none  is  so  curious 
as  that  of  Virgil.  Like  the  old  French  romance- 
writers  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  early  Spanish  po- 
ets introduce  the  Mantuan  bard  as  a  knight  of 
chivalry.  The  ballad  informs  us  that  a  certain 
king  kept  him  imprisoned  seven  years,  for  what 
old  Brantome  would  call  outrecuydance  with  a 
certain  Dona  Isabel.  But  being  at  mass  on  Sun- 
day, the  recollection  of  Virgil,  comes  suddenly 
into  his  mind,  when  he  ought  to  be  attending  to 
the  priest ;  and,  turning  to  his  knights,  he  asks 
them  what  has  become  of  Virgil.  One  of  them 
replies,  "  Your  Highness  has  him  imprisoned  in 
your  dungeons  "  ;  to  which  the  king  makes  an- 
swer with  the  greatest  coolness,  by  telling  them 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  213 

that  the  dinner  is  waiting,  and  that  after  they  have 
dined  they  will  pay  Virgil  a  visit  in  his  prison. 
Then  up  and  spake  the  queen  like  a  true  heroine ; 
quoth  she,  "  I  will  not  dine  without  him  "  ;  and 
straightway  they  all  repaired  to  the  prison,  where 
they  find  the  incarcerated  knight  engaged  in  the 
pleasant  pastime  of  combing  his  hair  and  arrang- 
ing his  beard.  He  tells  the  king  very  coolly  that 
on  that  very  day  he  has  been  a  prisoner  seven 
years  ;  to  this  the  king  replies,  "  Hush,  hush, 
Virgil;  it  takes  three  more  to  make  ten." 
"  Sire,"  says  Virgil,  with  the  same  philosophical 
composure,  "  if  your  Highness  so  ordains,  I  will 
pass  my  whole  life  here."  "  As  a  reward  for 
your  patience,  you  shall  dine  with  me  to-day," 
says  the  king.  "  My  coat  is  torn,"  says  Virgil ; 
"  I  am  not  in  trim  to  make  a  leg."  But  this 
difficulty  is  removed  by  the  promise  of  a  new  suit 
from  the  king  ;  and  they  go  to  dinner.  Virgil 
delights  both  knights  and  damsels,  but  most  of  all 
Dona  Isabel.  The  archbishop  is  called  in  ;  they 
are  married  forthwith,  and  the  ballad  closes  like 
a  scene  in  some  old  play  :  —  "  He  takes  her  by 
the  hand,  and  leads  her  to  the  garden." 

Such  is  this  curious  ballad. 

I  now  turn  to  one  of   the  most   beautiful   of 


214  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

these  ancient  Spanish  poems  ;  —  it  is  the  Ro- 
mance del  Conde  Alarcos  ;  a  ballad  full  of  in- 
terest and  of  touching  pathos.  The  story  is 
briefly  this.  The  Count  Alarcos,  after  being 
secretly  betrothed  to  the  Infanta  Solisa,  forsakes 
her  and  weds  another  lady.  Many  years  after- 
ward, the  princess,  sitting  alone,  as  she  was  wont, 
and  bemoaning  her  forsaken  lot,  resolves  to  tell  the 
cause  of  her  secret  sorrow  to  the  king  her  father  ; 
and,  after  confessing  her  clandestine  love  for  Count 
Alarcos,  demands  the  death  of  the  countess,  to 
heal  her  wounded  honor.  Her  story  awakens  the 
wrath  of  the  king  ;  he  acknowledges  the  justness 
of  her  demand,  seeks  an  interview  with  the  count, 
and  sets  the  case  before  him  in  so  strong  a  light, 
that  finally  he  wrings  from  him  a  promise  to  put 
his  wife  to  death  with  his  own  hand.  The  count 
returns  homeward  a  grief-stricken  man,  weeping 
the  sad  destiny  of  his  wife,  and  saying  within 
himself,  "How  shall  I  look  upon  her  smile  of 
joy,  when  she  comes  forth  to  meet  me  ?  "  The 
countess  welcomes  his  return  with  affectionate 
tenderness  ;  but  he  is  heavy  at  heart,  and  discon- 
solate. He  sits  down  to  supper  with  his  children 
around  him,  but  the  food  is  untasted  ;  he  hides 
his  face  in  his  hands,  and  weeps.  At  length  they 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  215 

retire  to  their  chamber.     In  the  language  of  Mr. 
Lockhart's  translation,  — 

"  They  came  together  to  the  bower,  where  they  were  used  to 

rest,— 

None  with  them  but  the  little  babe  that  was  upon  the  breast : 
The  count   had   barred  the  chamber-doors, —  they  ne'er 

were  barred  till  then  : 
'  Unhappy  lady,'  he  began,  '  and  I  most  lost  of  men  ! ' 

u  *  Now  speak  not  so,  my  noble  lord,  my  husband,  and  my  life ! 
Unhappy  never  can  she  be  that  is  Alarcos'  wife  ! ' 
*  Alas !  unhappy  lady,  't  is  but  little  that  you  know  ; 
For  in  that  very  word  you  've  said  is  gathered  all  your  woe. 

Ul  Long  since  I  loved  a  lady,  —  long  since  I  oaths  did  plight 
To  be  that  lady's  husband,  to  love  her  day  and  night ; 
Her  father  is  our  lord  the  king,  —  to  him  the  thing  is  known ; 
And  now  —  that  I  the  news  should  bring !  —  she  claims  me 
for  her  own. 

•' '  Alas !  my  love,  alas !  my  life,  the  right  is  on  their  side : 
Ere  I  had  seen  your  face,  sweet  wife,  she  was  betrothed 

my  bride ; 
But  —  O,  that  I  should  speak  the  word! — since  in  her 

place  you  lie, 
It  is  the  bidding  of  our  lord  that  you  this  night  mast  die.' 

" '  Are  these  the  wages  of  my  love,  so  lowly  and  so  leal  ? 
O,  kill  me  not,  thou  noble  Count,  when  at  thy  foot  I  kneel ! 
But  send  me  to  my  father's  house,  where  once  I  dwelt  in 

glee; 
There  will  I  live  a  lone,  chaste  life,  and  rear  my  children 

three.' 


216  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

" '  It  may  not  be,  —  mine  oath  is  strong,  —  ere  dawn  of  day 

you  die.' 

4  O,  well  't  is  seen  how  all  alone  upon  the  earth  am  I !  — 
My  father  is  an  old,  frail  man ;  my  mother  's  in  her  grave  ; 
And  dead  is  stout  Don  Garci,  —  alas  !  my  brother  brave  ! 

" '  'T  was  at  this  coward  king's  command  they  slew  my  broth- 
er dear, 

And  now  I  'in  helpless  in  the  land  !  —  it  is  not  death  I  fear, 
But  loth,  loth  am  I  to  depart,  and  leave  my  children  so ;  — 
Now  let  me  lay  them  to  my  heart,  and  kiss  them,  ere  I  go.' 

" '  Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast,  —  the  rest  thou  mayst 

not  see.' 

'  I  fain  would  say  an  Ave.'     '  Then  say  it  speedily.' 
She  knelt  her  down  upon  her  knee,  — '  O  Lord,  behold 

my  case ! 
Judge  not  my  deeds,  but  look  on  me  in  pity  and  great  grace  ! ' 

"  When  she  had  made  her  orison,  up  from  her  knees  she 

rose :  — 

'  Be  kind,  Alarcos,  to  our  babes,  and  pray  for  my  repose ; 
And  now  give  me  my  boy  once  more,  upon  my  breast  to 

hold, 
That  he  may  drink  one  farewell  drink  before  my  breast  be 

cold.' 

" '  Why  would  you  waken  the  poor  child  ?  you  see  he  is 

asleep ; 
Prepare,  dear  wife,  there  is  no  time,  the  dawn  begins  to 

peep.' 

'  Now,  hear  me,  Count  Alarcos !  I  give  thee  pardon  free  ; 
I  pardon  thee  for  the  love's  sake  wherewith  I  -ve  loved 

thee ;  — 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  217 

" '  Bat  they  hare  not  my  pardon,  —  the  king  and  his  proud 

daughter ; 

The  curse  of  God  be  on  them,  for  this  unchristian  slaughter ! 
I  charge  them  with  my  dying  breath,  ere  thirty  days  be  gone, 
To  meet  me  in  the  realm  of  death,  and  at  God's  awral 
throne ! ' " 

The  count  then  strangles  her  with  a  scarf,  and 
the  ballad  concludes  with  the  fulfilment  of  the 
dying  lady's  prayer,  in  the  death  of  the  king  and 
the  Infanta  within  twenty  days  of  her  own. 

Few,  I  think,  will  be  disposed  to  question  the 
beauty  of  this  ancient  ballad,  though  the  refined 
and  cultivated  taste  of  many  may  revolt  from  the 
seemingly  unnatural  incident  upon  which  it  is 
founded.  It  must  be  recollected  that  this  is  a 
scene  taken  from  a  barbarous  age,  when  the  life 
of  even  the  most  cherished  and  beloved  was  held 
of  little  value  in  comparison  with  a  chivalrous  but 
false  and  exaggerated  point  of  honor.  It  must  be 
borne  in  mind  also,  that,  notwithstanding  the  boast- 
ed liberty  of  the  Castilian  hidalgos,  and  their  fre- 
quent rebellions  against  the  crown,  a  deep  rever- 
ence for  the  divine  right  of  kings,  and  a  conse- 
quent disposition  to  obey  the  mandates  of  the 
throne,  at  almost  any  sacrifice,  has  always  been 
one  of  the  prominent  traits  of  the  Spanish  char- 
acter. When  taken  in  connection  with  these  cir- 


218  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

cumstances,  the  story  of  this  old  ballad  ceases  to 
be  so  grossly  improbable  as  it  seems  at  first  sight ; 
and,  indeed,  becomes  an  illustration  of  national 
character.  In  all  probability,  the  story  of  the 
Conde  Alarcos  had  some  foundation  hi  fact.* 

The  third  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads 
is  the  Moorish.  Here  we  enter  a  new  world, 
more  gorgeous  and  more  dazzling  than  that  of 
Gothic  chronicle  and  tradition.  The  stern  spirits 
of  Bernardo,  the  Cid,  and  Mudarra  have  passed 
away  ;  the  mail-clad  forms  of  Guarinos,  Orlan- 
do, and  Durandarte  are  not  here  ;  the  scene  is 
changed  ;  it  is  the  bridal  of  Andalla  ;  the  bull- 
fight of  Ganzul.  The  sunshine  of  Andalusia 
glances  upon  the  marble  halls  of  Granada,  and 
green  are  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  and  the  Darro. 
A  band  of  Moorish  knights  gayly  arrayed  in  gam- 
besons  of  crimson  silk,  with  scarfs  of  blue  and 
jewelled  tahalies,  sweep  like  the  wind  through  the 
square  of  Vivarambla.  They  ride  to  the  Tour- 
nament of  Reeds  ;  the  Moorish  maiden  leans 
from  the  balcony  ;  bright  eyes  glisten  from  many 

*  This  exaggerated  reverence  for  the  person  and  preroga- 
tives of  the  king  has  furnished  the  groundwork  of  two  of  the 
best  dramas  in  the  Spanish  language  ;  La  Estrella  de  SrriUa, 
by  Lope  de  Vega,  and  Del  Rey  abajo  Ninguno,  by  Francisco 
de  Rojas. 


A.XCIEST    5PAJJISB    BALLADS.  219 

a  lattice  ;  and  the  victorious  knight  receives  the 
prixe  of  valor  from  the  hand  of  her  whose  beauty 
is  like  the  star-fit  right.  These  are  the  Xarifes, 
the  Cefindas,  and  Lindaraxas,  —  the  AndaBas, 
Ganzules,  and  Abenzajdes  of  Moorish  song. 

Then  comes  the  sound  of  the  silver  clarion,  and 
the  rofl  of  the  Moorish  atabal,  down  from  the 
snowy  pass  of  the  Siena  Nevada  and  across  the 
gardens  of  die  Vega.  AJhama  has  feDen !  woe  is 
me,  Alhama  !  The  Christian  is  at  the  gates  of 
Granada  ;  the  banner  of  the  cross  floats  from  the 
towers  of  the  Alhambra  !  And  these,  too,  are 
themes  far  the  minstrel,  —  themes  sung  alike  by 
Moor  and  Spaniard. 

Among  the  Moorish  ballads  are  included  not 
only  those  which  were  originally  composed  in 
Arabic,  but  all  that  relate  to  the  manners,  cus- 
toms, and  history  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  In 
most  of  them  the  influence  of  an  Oriental  taste  is 
clearly  visible ;  their  spirit  is  more  refined  and  ef- 
feminate than  that  of  the  historic  and  romantic 
baDads,  in  which  no  trace  of  such  an  influence  is 
perceptible.  The  spirit  of  the  Cid  is  stern,  un- 
bending,, steel-dad;  his  hand  grasps  his  sword 
Toona ;  his  heel  wounds  the  flank  of  his  steed 
Babieca. 


220  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

"  La  mano  aprieta  4  Tizona, 
Y  el  talon  fiere  a  Babieca." 

But  the  spirit  of  Arbolan  the  Moor,  though  reso- 
lute in  camps,  is  effeminate  in  courts  ;  he  is  a 
diamond  among  scymitars,  yet  graceful  in  the 
dance ;  — 

"  Diamante  entre  los  alfanges, 
Gracioso  en  baylar  las  zambras." 

The  ancient  ballads  are  stamped  with  the  charac- 
ter of  their  heroes.  Abundant  illustrations  of  this 
could  be  given,  but  it  is  not  necessary. 

Among  the  most  spirited  of  the  Moorish  ballads 
are  those  which  are  interwoven  in  the  History  of 
the  Civil  Wars  of  Granada.  The  following,  en- 
titled "  A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and 
Conquest  of  Alhama,"  is  very  beautiful ;  and  such 
was  the  effect  it  produced  upon  the  Moors,  that  it 
was  forbidden,  on  pain  of  death,  to  sing  it  within 
the  walls  of  Granada.  The  translation,  which  is 
executed  with  great  skill  and  fidelity,  is  from  the 
pen  of  Lord  Byron. 

"  The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town  ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  221 

"  Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Albania's  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Albambra  spurring  in. 
Woe  ia  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  When  the  Alhambra's  walls  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, — 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 

That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 

One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 

Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor 
In  these  words  the  king  before  :  — 
'  Wherefore  call  on  us,  O  king  ? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering  ? ' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


ANCIENT  SPANISH  BALLADS. 

"  '  Friends  !  ye  have,  alas  !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow  ; 
That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see  :  — 
'  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served  ; 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

" '  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower  ; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  '  And  for  this,  O  king  !  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement ; 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  '  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law ; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

"  Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eye 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


ANCIENT     SPANISH    BALLADS.  223 

"  '  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings ! ' 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Albania  !  " 

Such  are  the  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  ;  poems 
which,  like  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  have  outlived  the  names  of  their  builders. 
They  are  the  handiwork  of  wandering,  homeless 
minstrels,  who  for  their  daily  bread  thus  "  built 
the  lofty  rhyme  "  ;  and  whose  names,  likje  their 
dust  and  ashes,  have  long,  long  been  wrapped  in 
a  shroud.  "  These  poets,"  says  an  anonymous 
writer,  "  have  left  behind  them  no  trace  to  which 
the  imagination  can  attach  itself ;  they  have  '  died 
and  made  no  sign.'  We  pass  from  the  infancy 
of  Spanish  poetry  to  the  age  of  Charles,  through 
a  long  vista  of  monuments  without  inscriptions,  as 
the  traveller  approaches  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
modern  Rome  through  the  lines  of  silent  and  un- 
known tombs  that  border  the  Appian  Way." 

Before  closing  this  essay,  I  must  allude  to  the 
unfavorable  opinion  which  the  learned  Dr.  South- 
ey  has  expressed  concerning  the  merit  of  these 
old  Spanish  ballads.  In  his  preface  to  the  Chron- 
icle of  the  Cid,  he  says,  —  "  The  heroic  ballads  of 


224  ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS. 

the  Spaniards  have  been  overrated  in  this  country  ; 
they  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior  to  our 
own  ;  there  are  some  spirited  ones  in  the  Guerras 
Civiles  de  Granada,  from  which  the  rest  have 
been  estimated  ;  but,  excepting  these,  I  know  none 
of  any  value  among  the  many  hundreds  which  I 
have  perused."  On  this  field  I  am  willing  to  do 
battle,  though  it  be  with  a  veteran  knight  who 
bears  enchanted  arms,  and  whose  sword,  like  that 
of  Martin  Antolinez,  "  illumines  all  the  field." 
That  the  old  Spanish  ballads  may  have  been  over- 
rated, and  that  as  a  whole  they  are  inferior  to  the 
English,  I  concede ;  that  many  of  the  hundred 
ballads  of  the  Cid  are  wanting  in  interest,  and  that 
many  of  those  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France 
are  languid,  and  drawn  out  beyond  the  patience 
of  the  most  patient  reader,  I  concede  ;  I  willingly 
confess,  also,  that  among  them  all  I  have  found 
none  that  can  rival  in  graphic  power  the  short  but 
wonderful  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  wherein 
the  mariner  sees  "the  new  moon  with  the  old 
moon  in  her  arm,"  or  the  more  modern  one  of  the 
Battle  of  Agincourt,  by  Michael  Drayton,  begin- 
ning, — 

"  Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
As  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry  ; 


ANCIENT    SPAM5H    BALLADS.  225 

At  Caux,  the  nontii  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  manial  train, 
Laoded  King  Hairy. 

Ail  this  I  readily  concede ;  but  that  the  old  Span- 
ish ballads  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior  to 
the  English,  and  that  among  them  all  there  are  none 
of  any  value,  save  a  few  which  celebrate  the  civil 
wars  of  Granada,  — this  I  deny.  The  March 
of  Bernardo  del  Carpio  is  hardly  inferior  to  Chevy 
Chase  ;  and  the  ballad  of  the  Conde  Alarcos,  in 
simplicity  and  pathos,  has  no  peer  in  all  English 
balladry,  —  it  is  superior  to  Edem  o'  Gordon. 

But  a  trace  to  criticism.  Already,  methmks,  I 
hear  the  voice  of  a  drowsy-  and  prosaic  herald 
proclaiming,  in  the  language  of  Don  Quixote  to 
the  puppet-player,  "  Make  an  end,  Master  Peter ; 
for  k  grows  toward  supper-time,  and  I  hare  some 
symptoms  of  hanger  upon  me." 


15 


THE 

VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO. 


When  the  lawyer  is  swallowed  up  with  business,  and  the 
statesman  is  preventing  or  contriving  plots,  then  we  sit  on 
cowslip  banks,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  possess  ourselves  in 
as  much  quietness  as  these  silent  silver  streams  we  now  see 
glide  so  quietly  by  us. 

IZAAK  WALTON. 


IN  that  delicious  season  when  the  coy  and  ca- 
pricious maidenhood  of  spring  is  swelling  into  the 
warmer,  riper,  and  more  voluptuous  womanhood 
of  summer,  I  left  Madrid  for  the  village  of  El 
Pardillo.  I  had  already  seen  enough  of  the  vil- 
lages of  the  North  of  Spain  to  know  that  for  the 
most  part  they  have  few  charms  to  entice  one 
from  the  city  ;  but  I  was  curious  to  see  the  peas- 
antry of  the  land  in  their  native  homes> — to  see 
how  far  the  shepherds  of  Castile  resemble  those 
who  sigh  and  sing  in  the  pastoral  romances  of 
Montemayor  and  Gaspar  Gil  Polo. 

I  love  the  city  and  its  busy  hum  ;  I  love  that 
glad  excitement  of  the  crowd  which  makes  the 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.          227 

pulse  beat  quick,  the  freedom  from  restraint,  the 
absence  of  those  curious  eyes  and  idle  tongues 
which  persecute  one  in  villages  and  provincial 
towns.  I  love  the  country,  too,  in  its  season  ; 
and  there  is  no  scene  over  which  my  eye  roves 
with  more  delight  dran  die  face  of  a  summer 
landscape  dimpled  with  soft  sunny  hollows,  and 
smiling  in  all  the  freshness  and  luxuriance  of 
June.  There  is  no  book  in  which  I  read  sweet- 
er lessons  of  virtue,  or  find  die  beauty  of  a  quiet 
life  more  legibly  recorded.  My  heart  drinks  in 
the  tranquillity  of  the  scene ;  and  I  never  hear 
the  sweet  warble  of  a  bird  from  its  native  wood, 
widiout  a  silent  wish  that  such  a  cheerful  voice 
and  peaceful  shade  were  mine.  There  is  a  beau- 
tiful moral  feeling  connected  with  every  thing  in 
rural  life,  which  is  not  dreamed  of  in  die  phi- 
losophy of  die  city ;  the  voice  of  the  brook  and 
die  language  of  the  winds  and  woods  are  no  po- 
etic fiction.  What  an  impressive  lesson  is  there 
in  die  opening  bud  of  spring !  what  an  eloquent 
homily  in  the  fall  of  the  autumnal  leaf !  How 
well  does  the  song  of  a  passing  bird  represent 
the  glad  but  transitory  days  of  youth  !  and  in 
the  hollow  tree  and  hooting  owl  what  a  melan- 
choly image  of  the  decay  and  imbecility  of  old 


228          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

age  !     In  the  beautiful   language  of  an   English 
poet,  — 

"  Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers, 
From  loneliest  nook. 

"  'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer  ; 

"  Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 

"  To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply,  — 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  —  its  organ  thunder,  — 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

"  There,  amid  solitude  and  shade,  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  and,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God." 

But  the  traveller  who  journeys  through  the 
northern  provinces  of  Spain  will  look  in  vain 
for  the  charms  of  rural  scenery  in  the  villages 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.         229 

he  passes.  Instead  of  trim  cottages,  and  gar- 
dens, and  the  grateful  shade  of  trees,  he  will 
see  a  cluster  of  stone  hovels  roofed  with  red 
tiles  and  basking  in  the  hot  sun,  without  a  single 
tree  to  lend  him  shade  or  shelter  ;  and  instead 
of  green  meadows  and  woodlands  vocal  with  the 
song  of  birds,  he  will  find  bleak  -  and  rugged 
mountains,  and  vast  extended  plains,  that  stretch 
away  beyond  his  ken. 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  however,  to  find,  not 
many  leagues  from  the  metropolis,  a  village  which 
could  boast  the  shadow  of  a  few  trees.  El  Par- 
dillo  is  situated  on  the  southern  slope  of  the 
Guadarrama  Mountains,  just  where  the  last  brok- 
en spurs  of  the  sierra  stretch  forward  into  the 
vast  table-land  of  New  Castile.  The  village 
itself,  like  most  other  Castilian  villages,  is  only 
a  cluster  of  weather-stained  and  dilapidated  hous- 
es, huddled  together  without  beauty  or  regular- 
ity ;  but  the  scenery  around  it  is  picturesque,  — 
a  mingling  of  hill  and  dale,  sprinkled  with  patch- 
es of  cultivated  land  and  clumps  of  forest-trees  ; 
and  in  the  background  the  blue,  vapory  outline  of 
the  Guadarraraa  Mountains  melting  into  the  sky. 

In  this  quiet  place  I  sojourned  for  a  season, 
accompanied  by  the  publican  Don  Valentin  and 


230          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

his  fair  daughter  Florencia.  We  took  up  our 
abode  in  the  cottage  of  a  peasant  named  Lucas, 
an  honest  tiller  of  the  soil,  simple  and  good- 
natured ;  or,  in  the  more  emphatic  language  of 
Don  Valentin,  "  tin  hombre  muy  infeliz,  y  sin 
malicia  ninguna."  Not  so  his  wife  Martina  ; 
she  was  a  Tartar,  and  so  mettlesome  withal,  that 
poor  Lucas  skulked  doggedly  about  his  own 
premises,  with  his  head  down  and  his  tail  be- 
tween his  legs. 

In  this  little  village  my  occupations  were  few 
and  simple.  My  morning's  walk  was  to  the 
Cross  of  Espalmado,  a  large  wooden  crucifix 
in  the  fields  ;  the  day  was  passed  with  books, 
or  with  any  idle  companion  I  was  lucky  enough 
to  catch  by  the  button,  and  bribe  with  a  cigar 
into  a  long  story,  or  a  little  village  gossip  ;  and 
I  whiled  away  the  evening  in  peeping  round 
among  the  cottagers,  studying  the  beautiful  land- 
scape that  spread  before  me,  and  watching  the 
occasional  gathering  of  a  storm  about  the  blue 
peaks  of  the  Guadarrama  Mountains.  My  fa- 
vorite haunt  was  a  secluded  spot  in  a  little  wood- 
land valley,  through  which  a  crystal  brook  ran 
brawling  along  its  pebbly  channel.  There,  stretch- 
ed in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  I  often  passed  the 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.         231 

hours  of  noontide  heat,  now  reading  the  magic 
numbers  of  Garcilaso,  and  anon  listening  to  the 
song  of  the  nightingale  overhead  ;  or  watching 
the  toil  of  a  patient  ant,  as  he  roDed  his  stone, 
Kke  Sisyphus,  up-hill,  or  the  flight  of  a  bee  dart- 
ing from  flower  to  flower,  and  "  hiding  his  mur- 
murs in  the  rose." 

Blame  me  not,  thou  studious  moralist,  — blame 
me  not  unheard  for  this  idle  dreaming  ;  such  mo- 
ments are  not  wholly  thrown  away.  In  the  lan- 
guage of  Goethe,  "  I  lie  down  in  the  grass  near 
a  falling  brook,  and  close  to  the  earth  a  thou- 
sand varieties  of  grasses  become  perceptible. 
When  I  listen  to  the  bum  of  the  little  world 
between  the  stubble,  and  see  the  countless  in- 
describable forms  of  insects,  I  feel  the  presence 
of  the  Almighty  who  has  created  us,  —  the 
breath  of  the  All-benevolent  who  supports  us  in 
perpetual  enjoyment." 

The  village  church,  too,  was  a  spot  around 
which  I  occasionally  fingered  of  an  evening,  when 
in  pensive  or  melancholy  mood.  And  here,  gen- 
tle reader,  thy  imagination  wffl  straightway  con- 
jure up  a  scene  of  ideal  beauty, — a  village  church 
with  decent  white-washed  walls,  and  modest  spire 
just  peeping  forth  from  a  clump  of  trees  !  No  ; 


232          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

I  will  not  deceive  thee; — the  church  of  El  Par- 
dillo  resembles  not  this  picture  of  thy  well  tutored 
fancy.  It  is  a  gloomy  little  edifice,  standing 
upon  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  and  built  of 
dark  and  unhewn  stone,  with  a  spire  like  a  sugar- 
loaf.  There  is  no  grass-plot  in  front,  but  a  little 
esplanade  beaten  hard  by  the  footsteps  of  the 
church-going  peasantry.  The  tombstone  of  one 
of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village  serves  as  a  door- 
step, and  a  single  solitary  tree  throws  its  friendly 
shade  upon  the  portals  of  the  little  sanctuary. 

One  evening,  as  I  loitered  around  this  spot, 
the  sound  of  an  organ  and  the  chant  of  youth- 
ful voices  from  within  struck  my  ear ;  the  church- 
door  was  ajar,  and  I  entered.  There  stood  the 
priest,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  children,  who 
were  singing  a  hymn  to  the  Virgin  :  — 

"  Ave,  Regina  ccelorum, 
Ave,  Dotnina  angelorum." 

There  is  something  exceedingly  thrilling  in  the 
voices  of  children  singing.  Though  their  music 
be  unskilful,  yet  it  finds  its  way  to  the  heart  with 
wonderful  celerity.  Voices  of  cherubs  are  they, 
for  they  breathe  of  paradise  ;  clear,  liquid  tones, 
that  flow  from  pure  lips  and  innocent  hearts,  like 


THE  VILLAGE  OF  EL  PARDILLO.    233 

the  sweetest  notes  of  a  flute,  or  the  falling  of 
water  from  a  fountain  !  When  the  chant  was 
finished,  the  priest  opened  a  little  book  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  began,  with  a  voice  as 
solemn  as  a  funeral  bell,  to  question  this  class 
of  roguish  little  catechumens,  whom  he  was  in- 
itiating into  the  mysterious  doctrines  of  the  moth- 
er church.  Some  of  the  questions  and  answers 
were  so  curious,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  repeat- 
ing them  here  ;  and  should  any  one  doubt  their 
authenticity,  he  will  find  them  in  the  Spanish 
catechisms. 

"  In  what  consists  the  mystery  of  the  Holy 
Trinity  ? » 

"In  one  God,  who  is  three  persons ;  and  three 
persons,  who  are  but  one  God." 

"But  tell  me,  —  three  human  persons,  are 
they  not  three  men  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  Then  why  are  not  three  divine  persons  three 
Gods  ?  " 

"  Because  three  human  persons  have  three 
human  natures  ;  but  the  three  divine  persons  have 
only  one  divine  nature." 

"  Can  you  explain  this  by  an  example  ?  " 

"  Yes,   father  ;    as   a   tree   which  has    three 


234          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

branches  is  still  but  one  tree,  since  all  the  three 
branches  spring  from  one  trunk,  so  the  three  di- 
vine persons  are  but  one  God,  because  they  all 
have  the  same  divine  nature." 

"  Where  were  these  three  divine  persons  be- 
fore the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  created  ?  " 

"  In  themselves." 

"  Which  of  them  was  made  man  ?  " 

"  The  Son." 

"And  after  the  Son  was  made  man,  was  he 
still  God  ? " 

"  Yes,  father  ;  for  in  becoming  man  he  did 
not  cease  to  be  God,  any  more  than  a  man  when 
he  becomes  a  monk  ceases  to  be  a  man." 

"  How  was  the  Son  of  God  made  flesh  ?  " 

"  He  was  born  of  the  most  holy  Virgin  Mary." 

"  And  can  we  still  call  her  a  virgin  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father ;  for  as  a  ray  of  the  sun  may 
pass  through  a  pane  of  glass,  and  the  glass  re- 
main unbroken,  so  the  Virgin  Mary,  after  the 
birth  of  her  son,  was  a  pure  and  holy  virgin  as 
before."* 

*  This  illustration  was  also  made  use  of  during  the  dark 
ages.  Pierre  de  Corbiac,  a  Troubadour  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, thus  introduces  it  in  a  poem  entitled  Prayer  to  the  Vir- 
gin :— 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.         235 

"  Who  died  to  save  and  redeem  us  ?  " 

"The  Son  of  God:  as  man,  and  not  as  God." 

"  How  could  he  suffer  and  die  as  man  only, 
being  both  God  and  man,  and  yet  but  one  per- 
son?" 

"  As  in  a  heated  bar  of  iron  upon  winch  water 
is  thrown,  the  heat  only  is  affected  and  not  the 
inn,  so  the  Son  of  God  suffered  in  his  human 
nature  and  not  in  his  divine." 

"  And  when  the  spirit  was  separated  from  his 
most  precious  body,  whither  did  the  spirit  go  ?  " 

"  To  limbo,  to  glorify  the  souls  of  the  holy 
fathers." 

"  And  the  body  ?  " 

"  It  was  carried  to  the  grave." 

"  Did  the  dmnhy  remain  united  with  the  spirit 
or  wnh  the  body?" 

"With  both.  As  a  soldier,  when  he  unsheathes 
bis  sword,  remains  united  both  wnh  the  sword  and 


236          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

the  sheath,  though  they  are  separated  from  each 
other,  so  did  the  divinity  remain  united  both  with 
the  spirit  and  body  of  Christ,  though  the  spirit 
was  separated  and  removed  from  the  body." 

I  did  not  quarrel  with  the  priest  for  having 
been  born  and  educated  in  a  different  faith  from 
mine  ;  but  as  I  left  the  church  and  sauntered 
slowly  homeward,  I  could  not  help  asking  my- 
self, in  a  whisper,  Why  perplex  the  spirit  of  a 
child  with  these  metaphysical  subtilties,  these 
dark,  mysterious  speculations,  which  man  in  all 
his  pride  of  intellect  cannot  fathom  or  explain  ? 

I  must  not  forget,  in  this  place,  to  make  honor- 
able mention  of  the  little  great  men  of  El  Par- 
dillo.  And  first  in  order  comes  the  priest.  He 
was  a  short,  portly  man,  serious  in  manner,  and 
of  grave  and  reverend  presence  ;  though  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  dash  of  the  jolly-fat-friar 
about  him  ;  and  on  hearing  a  good  joke  or  a  sly 
innuendo,  a  smile  would  gleam  in  his  eye,  and 
play  over  his  round  face,  like  the  light  of  a  glow- 
worm. His  housekeeper  was  a  brisk,  smiling 
little  woman,  on  the  shady  side  of  thirty,  and  a 
cousin  of  his  to  boot.  Whenever  she  was  men- 
tioned, Don  Valentin  looked  wise,  as  if  this 
cousinship  were  apocryphal  ;  but  he  said  noth- 


THE    TILLAGE    OP    EL    PARDILLO-          237 

ing,  — not  be  ;  what  rigfat  bad  be  to  be  peeping 
into  other  people's  business,  when  be  had  only 
one  ere  to  look  after  bis  own  withal  ?  Next  in 
rank  to  the  Dominie  was  the  Alcalde,  justice 
of  the  peace  and  quorum  ;  a  most  potent,  grave, 
and  reverend  personage,  with  a  long  beak  of  a 
nose,  and  a  pooch  under  his  chin,  tike  a  pelican. 
He  was  a  man  of  few  words,  but  great  in  author- 
ity ;  and  his  importance  was  vastly  increased  in 
the  village  by  a  pair  of  double-barrelled  specta- 
cles, so  contrived,  that,  when  bent  over  bis  desk 
and  deeply  buried  in  bis  musty  papers,  he  could 
look  up  and  see  what  was  going  on  around  him 
without  moving  his  head,  whereby  be  got  the 
reputation  of  seeing  twice  as  much  as  other  peo- 
ple. There  was  the  village  surgeon,  too,  a  tall 
man  with  a  varnished  hat  and  a  starved  dog ;  he 
bad  studied  at  the  University  of  Salamanca,  and 
was  pompous  and  pedantic,  ever  and  anon  quot- 
ing some  threadbare  maxim  from  the  Greek  phi- 
losophers, and  embellishing  it  with  a  commentary 
of  his  own.  Then  there  was  tbe  gray-headed  Sac- 
ristan, who  rang  the  church-bell,  played  on  tbe 
organ,  and  was  learned  b  tombstone  lore  ;  a  Pol- 
itician, who  talked  me  to  death  about  taxes,  lib- 
erty, and  the  days  of  tbe  constitution  ;  and  a 


238          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

Notary  Public,  a  poor  man  with  a  large  family, 
who  would  make  a  paper-cigar  last  half  an  hour, 
and  who  kept  up  his  respectability  in  the  village 
by  keeping  a  horse. 

Beneath  the  protecting  shade  of  these  great 
men  full  many  an  inhabitant  of  El  Pardillo  was 
born  and  buried.  The  village  continued  to  flour- 
ish, a  quiet,  happy  place,  though  all  unknown 
to  fame.  The  inhabitants  were  orderly  and  in- 
dustrious, went  regularly  to  mass  and  confession, 
kept  every  saint's  day  in  the  calendar,  and  de- 
voutly hung  Judas  once  a  year  in  effigy.  On 
Sundays  and  all  other  holydays,  when  mass,  was 
over,  the  time  was  devoted  to  sports  and  recre- 
ation ;  and  the  day  passed  off  in  social  visiting, 
and  athletic  exercises,  such  as  running,  leaping, 
wrestling,  pitching  quoits,  and  heaving  the  bar. 
When  evening  came,  the  merry  sound  of  the 
guitar  summoned  to  the  dance  ;  then  every  nook 
and  alley  poured  forth  its  youthful  company,  — 
light  of  heart  and  heel,  and  decked  out  in  all  the 
holyday  finery  of  flowers,  and  ribands,  and  crim- 
son sashes.  A  group  gathered  before  the  cot- 
tage-door ;  the  signal  was  given,  and  away  whirl- 
ed the  merry  dancers  to  the  wild  music  of  voice 
and  guitar,  and  the  measured  beat  of  castanet 
and  tambourine. 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    EL    PAKDILLO.         239 

I  love  these  rural  dances,  —  from  mr  bean  I 
lore  them.  This  world,  at  best,  b  so  fuD  of  care 
and  sorrow, — the  fife  of  a  poor  man  is  so  stained 
with  the  sweat  of  fab  brow,  — these  is  so  much 
toil,  and  straggling,  and  anguish,  and  disappoint- 
ment here  below,  that  I  gaze  with  defight  on  a 
scene  where  all  these  are  hud  aside  and  forgotten, 
and  the  heart  of  the  toft-worn  peasant  seems  to 
throw  off  its  load,  and  to  leap  to  the  sound  of 


K~   =-.--.   i 


Not  many  mfles  from  die  village  of  El  Par- 
dfflo  stands  the  ruined  castle  of  Vfflafranca, 
an  ancient  stronghold  of  die  Moors  of  the  if- 
teentfa  century.  It  b  buflt  upon  the  summit  of  a 
biB,  of  easy  ascent  upon  one  side,  but  precipitous 
and  inaccessible  on  the  other.  The  front  pre- 
sents a  large,  square  tower,  constituting  the  main 
part  of  die  castle ;  on  one  side  of  which  an 
arched  gateway  leads  to  a  spacious  court-rard 
wrflan,  surrounded  fay  battlements.  The  corner 
towers  are  circular,  nidi  beetling  luuefs ,  and 
here  and  there,  apart  from  the  main  body  of  the 
castle,  ^And  several  circular  basniteuts,  whose 


240          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

towers  have  fallen  and  mouldered  into  dust. 
From  the  balcony  in  the  square  tower,  the  eye 
embraces  the  level  landscape  for  leagues  and 
leagues  around  ;  and  beneath,  in  the  depth  of 
the  valley,  lies  a  beautiful  grove,  alive  with  the 
song  of  the  nightingale.  The  whole  castle  is  in 
ruin,  and  occupied  only  as  a  hunting-lodge,  being 
inhabited  by  a  solitary  tenant,  who  has  charge 
of  the  adjacent  domain. 

One  holyday,  when  mass  was  said  and  the 
whole  village  was  let  loose  to  play,  we  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  ruins  of  this  old  Moorish  al- 
cazar. Our  cavalcade  was  as  motley  as  that  of 
old,  —  the  pilgrims  "  that  toward  Canterbury 
wolden  ride  "  ;  for  we  had  the  priest,  and  the 
doctor  of  physic,  and  the  man  of  laws,  and  a 
wife  of  Bath,  and  many  more  whom  I  must  leave 
unsung.  Merrily  flew  the  hours  and  fast ;  and 
sitting  after  dinner  in  the  gloomy  hall  of  that  old 
castle,  many  a  tale  was  told,  and  many  a  legend 
and  tradition  of  the  past  conjured  up  to  satisfy 
the  curiosity  of  the  present. 

Most  of  these  tales  were  about  the  Moors  who 
built  the  castle,  and  the  treasures  they  had  buried 
beneath  it.  Then  the  priest  told  the  story  of  a 
lawyer  who  sold  himself  to  the  devil  for  a  pot 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.          241 

of  money,  and  was  burnt  by  the  Holy  Inquisi- 
tion therefor.  In  his  confession,  he  told  how 
he  had  learned  from  a  Jew  the  secret  of  raising 
the  devil ;  how  he  went  to  the  castle  at  midnight 
with  a  book  which  the  Jew  gave  him,  and,  to 
make  the  charm  sure,  carried  with  him  a  load- 
stone, six  nails  from  the  coffin  of  a  child  of  three 
years,  six  tapers  of  rosewax,  made  by  a  child 
of  four  years,  the  skin  and  blood  of  a  young 
kid,  an  iron  fork,  with  which  the  kid  had  been 
killed,  a  few  hazel-rods,  a  flask  of  high-proof 
brandy,  and  some  lignum-vita?  charcoal  to  make 
a  fire.  When  he  read  in  the  book,  the  devil 
appeared  in  the  shape  of  a  man  dressed  in  flesh- 
colored  clothes,  with  long  nails,  and  large  fiery 
eyes,  and  he  signed  an  agreement  with  him  writ- 
ten in  blood,  promising  never  to  go  to  mass,  and 
to  give  him  his  soul  at  the  end  of  eight  years  ; 
in  return  for  this,  he  was  to  have  a  million  of 
dollars  in  good  money,  which  the  devil  was  to 
bring  to  him  the  next  night ;  but  when  the  next 
night  came,  and  the  lawyer  had  conjured  from 
his  book,  instead  of  the  devil,  there  appeared,  — 
who  do  you  think  ?  —  the  alcalde  with  half  the 
village  at  his  heels,  and  the  poor  lawyer  was 
16 


242          THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

handed   over   to   the   Inquisition,   and   burnt  for 
dealing  in  the  black  art. 

I  intended  to  repeat  here  some  of  the  many 
tales  that  were  told  ;  but,  upon  reflection,  they 
seem  too  frivolous,  and  must  therefore  give  place 
to  a  more  serious  theme. 


THE 

DEVOTIONAL  POETRY  OF  SPAIN. 


Heavens  doYe,  when  highest  he  flies, 
Flies  with  thy  heavenly  wings. 

CRASHAW. 


THERE  is  hardly  a  chapter  in  literary  history- 
more  strongly  marked  with  the  peculiarities  of 
national  character  than  that  which  contains  the 
moral  and  devotional  poetry  of  Spain.  It  would 
naturally  be  expected  that  in  this  department  of 
literature  all  the  fervency  and  depth  of  national 
feeling  would  be  exhibited.  But  still,  as  the 
spirit  of  morality  and  devotion  is  the  same, 
wherever  it  exists,  —  as  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue 
and  religion  is  everywhere  essentially  the  same 
feeling,  though  modified  in  its  degree  and  in  its 
action  by  a  variety  of  physical  causes  and  local 
circumstances,  —  and  as  the  subject  of  the  di- 
dactic verse  and  the  spiritual  canticle  cannot  be 
materially  changed  by  the  change  of  nation  and 
climate,  it  might  at  the  first  glance  seem  quite 


244      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

as  natural  to  expect  that  the  moral  and  devotional 
poetry  of  Christian  countries  would  never  be 
very  strongly  marked  with  national  peculiarities. 
In  other  words,  we  should  expect  it  to  corre- 
spond to  the  warmth  or  coldness  of  national  feel- 
ing, for  it  is  the  external  and  visible  expression 
of  this  feeling  ;  but  not  to  the  distinctions  of 
national  character,  because,  its  nature  and  object 
being  everywhere  the  same,  these  distinctions 
become  swallowed  up  in  one  universal  Christian 
character. 

In  moral  poetry  this  is  doubtless  true.  The 
great  principles  of  Christian  morality  being  eter- 
nal and  invariable,  the  verse  which  embodies 
and  represents  them  must,  from  this  very  cir- 
cumstance, be  the  same  in  its  spirit  through  all 
Christian  lands.  The  same,  however,  is  not 
necessarily  true  of  devotional  or  religious  poetry. 
There,  the  language  of  poetry  is  something  more 
than  the  visible  image  of  a  devotional  spirit.  It 
is  also  an  expression  of  religious  faith  ;  shadow- 
ing forth,  with  greater  or  less  distinctness,  its 
various  creeds  and  doctrines.  As  these  are  dif- 
ferent in  different  nations,  the  spirit  that  breathes 
in  religious  song,  and  the  letter  that  gives  utter- 
ance to  the  doctrine  of  faith,  will  not  be  univer- 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRT    OF    SPAIN.      245 

sally  the  same.  Thus,  Catholic  nations  sing  the 
praises  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  language  in  which 
nations  of  the  Protestant  faith  do  not  unite  ;  and 
among  Protestants  themselves,  the  difference  of 
interpretations,  and  the  consequent  belief  or  dis- 
belief of  certain  doctrines,  give  a  various  spirit 
and  expression  to  religious  poetry.  And  yet, 
in  all,  the  devotional  feeling,  the  heavenward  vo- 
lition, is  the  same. 

As  far,  then,  as  peculiarities  of  religious  faith 
exercise  an  influence  upon  intellectual  habits,  and 
thus  become  a  part  of  national  character,  so  far 
will  the  devotional  or  religious  poetry  of  a  coun- 
try exhibit  the  characteristic  peculiarities  result- 
ing from  this  influence  of  faith,  and  its  assim- 
ilation with  the  national  mind.  Now  Spain  is 
by  preeminence  the  Catholic  land  of  Christen- 
dom. Most  of  her  historic  recollections  are 
more  or  less  intimately  associated  with  the  tri- 
umphs of  the  Christian  faith;  and  many  of  her 
warriors  —  of  her  best  and  bravest  —  were  mar- 
tyrs in  the  holy  cause,  perishing  in  that  war 
of  centuries  which  was  carried  on  within  her 
own  territories  between  the  crescent  of  Mahomet 
and  the  cross  of  Christ.  Indeed,  the  whole 
tissue  of  her  history  is  interwoven  with  mirac- 


246      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

ulous  tradition.  The  intervention  of  her  patron 
saint  has  saved  her  honor  in  more  than  one  dan- 
gerous pass  ;  and  the  war-shout  of  u  Santiago, 
y  cierra  Espana!"  has  worked  like  a  charm 
upon  the  wavering  spirit  of  the  soldier.  A  re- 
liance on  the  guardian  ministry  of  the  saints  per- 
vades the  whole  people,  and  devotional  offerings 
for  signal  preservation  in  times  of  danger  and 
distress  cover  the  consecrated  walls  of  churches. 
An  enthusiasm  of  religious  feeling,  and  of  ex- 
ternal ritual  observances,  prevails  throughout  the 
land.  But  more  particularly  is  the  name  of  the 
Virgin  honored  and  adored.  Ave.  Maria  is  the 
salutation  of  peace  at  the  friendly  threshold,  and 
the  God-speed  to  the  wayfarer.  It  is  the  even- 
ing orison,  when  the  toils  of  day  are  done  ;  and 
at  midnight  it  echoes  along  the  solitary  streets 
in  the  voice  of  the  watchman's  cry. 

These  and  similar  peculiarities  of  religious 
faith  are  breathing  and  moving  through  a  large 
portion  of  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain.  It 
is  not  only  instinct  with  religious  feeling,  but  in- 
corporated with  "  the  substance  of  things  not 
seen."  Not  only  are  the  poet's  lips  touched 
with  a  coal  from  the  altar,  but  his  spirit  is  folded 
in  the  cloud  of  incense  that  rises  before  the 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      247 

shrines  of  the  Virgin  Mother,  and  the  glorious 
company  of  the  saints  and  martyrs.  His  soul 
is  not  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  sublime  attributes  of  the  Eternal  Mind  ; 
but,  with  its  lamp  trimmed  and  burning,  it  goeth 
out  to  meet  the  bridegroom,  as  if  he  were  coming 
in  a  bodily  presence. 

The  history  of  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain 
commences  with  the  legendary  lore  of  Maestro 
Gonzalo  de  Berceo,  a  secular  priest,  whose  life 
was  passed  in  the  cloisters  of  a  Benedictine  con- 
vent, and  amid  the  shadows  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. The  name  of  Berceo  stands  foremost  on 
the  catalogue  of  Spanish  poets,  for  the  author 
of  the  Poem  of  the  Cid  is  unknown.  The  old 
patriarch  of  Spanish  poetry  has  left  a  monument 
of  his  existence  in  upwards  of  thirteen  thousand 
alexandrines,  celebrating  the  lives  and  miracles 
of  saints  and  the  Virgin,  as  he  found  them  written 
in  the  Latin  chronicles  and  dusty  legends  of  his 
monastery.  In  embodying  these  in  rude  verse 
in  reman  paladino,  or  the  old  Spanish  romance 
tongue,  intelligible  to  the  common  people,  Fray 
Gonzalo  seems  to  have  passed  his  life.  His 
writings  are  just  such  as  we  should  expect  from 
the  pen  of  a  monk  of  the  thirteenth  century. 


248      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

They  are  more  ghostly  than  poetical ;  and  through- 
out, unction  holds  the  place  of  inspiration.  Ac- 
cordingly, they  illustrate  very  fully  the  preceding 
remarks ;  and  the  more  so,  inasmuch  as  they  are 
written  with  the  most  ample  and  childish  credu- 
lity, and  the  utmost  singleness  of  faith  touching 
the  events  and  miracles  described. 

The  following  extract  is  taken  from  one  of 
Berceo's  poems,  entitled  "  Fida  de  San  Mil- 
Ian."  It  is  a  description  of  the  miraculous 
appearance  of  Santiago  and  San  Millan,  mounted 
on  snow-white  steeds,  and  6ghting  for  the  cause 
of  Christendom,  at  the  battle  of  Simancas  in  the 
Campo  de  Toro. 

And  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field,  —  their  squadrons  in 

array,  — 

With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to  mingle  in  the  fray ; 
But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror  of  their  foes,  — 
These  were  a  numerous  army,  —  a  little  handful  those. 

And  while  the  Christian  people  stood  in  this  uncertainty, 
Upward  to  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes,  and  fixed  their 

thoughts  on  high ; 

And  there  two  figures  they  beheld,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
Even  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their  garments  were  more 

white. 

They  rode  upon  two  horses  more  white  than  crystal  sheen, 
And  arms  they  bore  such  as  before  no  mortal  man  had  seen  ; 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      349 

The  one,  he  held  a  crosier,  —  a  pontiff's  mitre  wore : 
The  other  held  a  crucifix,  —  such  man  ne'er  saw  before. 

Their  faces  were  angelical,  celestial  forms  had  they,  — 
And  downward  through  the  fields  of  air  they  urged  their 

rapid  way ; 
They  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with  fierce  and  angry 

look, 
And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their  naked  sabres 

shook. 

The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straightway  take  heart 

again ; 

They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  resting  on  the  plain, 
And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to  smite  his  breast  begins, 
And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  forsake  his  sins. 

And  when  the  heavenly  knights  drew  near  unto  the  battle- 
ground, 

They  dashed  among  the  Moors  and  dealt  unerring  blows 
around} 

Such  deadly  havoc  there  they  made  the  foremost  ranks  along, 

A  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of  the  throng. 

Together  with  these  two  good  knights,  the  champions  of  the 

sky, 

The  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite  full  sore  and  high  ; 
The  Moors  raised  up  their  voices  and  by  the  Koran  swore 
That  in  their  lives  such  deadly  fray  they  ne'er  had  seen 

before. 

Down  went  the  misbelievers,  —  fast  sped  the  bloody  fight,  — 
Some  ghastly  and  dismembered  lay,  and  some  half  dead  with 
fright : 


250      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

Full  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field  they  came, 
For  they  saw  that  from  the  battle  they  should  retreat  with 
shame. 

Another  thing  befell  them, —  they  dreamed  not  of  such  woes,  — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from  their  twanging  bows 
Turned  back  against  them  in  their  flight  and  wounded  them 

full  sore, 
And  every  blow  they  dealt  the  foe  was  paid  in  drops  of  gore. 

Now  he  that  bore  the  crosier,  and  the  papal  crown  had  on, 
Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of  Saint  John  ; 
And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the  monkish  hood, 
Was  the  holy  San  Millan  of  Cogolla's  neighbourhood. 

Berceo's  longest  poem  is  entitled  "  Mir 'ados 
de  Nuestra  /Sewora,"  Miracles  of  Our  Lady. 
It  consists  of  nearly  four  thousand  lines,  and  con- 
tains the  description  of  twenty-five  miracles. 
It  is  a  complete  homily  on  the  homage  and  de- 
votion due  to  the  glorious  Virgin,  Madre  de  Jhu 
Xto,  Mother  of  Jesus  Christ;  but  it  is  written 
in  a  low  and  vulgar  style,  strikingly  at  variance 
with  the  elevated  character  of  the  subject.  Thus, 
in  the  twentieth  miracle,  we  have  the  account 
of  a  monk  who  became  intoxicated  in  a  wine- 
cellar.  Having  lain  on  the  floor  till  the  vesper- 
bell  aroused  him,  he  staggered  off  towards  the 
church  in  most  melancholy  plight.  The  Evil 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      251 

One  besets  him  on  the  way,  assuming  the  various 
shapes  of  a  bull,  a  dog,  and  a  lion  ;  but  from 
all  these  perils  he  is  miraculously  saved  by  the 
timely  intervention  of  the  Virgin,  who,  finding 
him  still  too  much  intoxicated  to  make  his  way 
to  bed,  kindly  takes  him  by  the  hand,  leads  him 
to  his  pallet,  covers  him  with  a  blanket  and  a 
counterpane,  smooths  his  pillow,  and,  after  mak- 
ing the  sign  of  the  cross  over  him,  tells  him  to 
rest  quietly,  for  sleep  will  do  him  good. 

To  a  certain  class  of  minds  there  may  be 
something  interesting  and  even  affecting  hi  de- 
scriptions which  represent  the  spirit  of  a  departed 
saint  as  thus  assuming  a  corporeal  shape,  in  order 
to  assist  and  console  human  nature  even  in  its 
baser  infirmities  ;  but  it  ought  also  to  be  con- 
sidered how  much  such  descriptions  tend  to  strip 
religion  of  its  peculiar  sanctity,  to  bring  it  down 
from  its  heavenly  abode,  not  merely  to  dwell 
among  men,  but,  like  an  imprisoned  culprit,  to 
be  chained  to  the  derelict  of  principle,  manacled 
with  the  base  desire  and  earthly  passion,  and 
forced  to  do  the  menial  offices  of  a  slave.  In 
descriptions  of  this  kind,  as  in  the  representa- 
tions of  our  Saviour  and  of  sainted  spirits  in 
a  human  shape,  execution  must  of  necessity  fall 


252      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

far  short  of  the  conception.  The  handiwork 
cannot  equal  the  glorious  archetype,  which  is  vis- 
ible only  to  the  mental  eye.  Painting  and  sculp- 
ture are  not  adequate  to  the  task  °f  embodying 
in  a  permanent  shape  the  glorious  visions,  the 
radiant  forms,  the  glimpses  of  heaven,  which 
fill  the  imagination,  when  purified  and  exalted 
by  devotion.  The  hand  of  man  unconsciously 
inscribes  upon  all  his  works  the  sentence  of  im- 
perfection, which  the  finger  of  the  invisible  hand 
wrote  upon  the  wall  of  the  Assyrian  monarch. 
From  this  it  would  seem  to  be  not  only  a  natural 
but  a  necessary  conclusion,  that  all  the  descrip- 
tions of  poetry  which  borrow  any  thing,  either 
directly  or  indirectly,  from  these  bodily  and  im- 
perfect representations,  must  partake  of  their 
imperfection,  and  assume  a  more  earthly  and 
material  character  than  those  which  come  glowing 
and  burning  from  the  more  spiritualized  percep- 
tions of  the  internal  sense. 

It  is  very  far  from  my  intention  to  utter  any 
sweeping  denunciation  against  the  divine  arts  of 
painting  and  sculpture,  as  employed  in  the  exhibi- 
tion of  Scriptural  scenes  and  personages.  These 
I  esteem  meet  ornaments  for  the  house  of  God ; 
though,  as  I  have  already  said,  their  execution 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETKT    OF    SPAI3T.      253 

cannot  equal  the  high  conceptions  of  an  ardent 
imagination,  yet,  whenever  the  hand  of  a  master 
is  visible,  —  when  the  marble  almost  mores  be- 
fore TOO,  and  the  painting  starts  into  fife  from 
the  canvass,  —  the  effect  upon  an  enlightened 
mind  will  generally,  if  not  universally,  be  to 
quicken  its  sensibilities  and  excite  to  more  ardent 
devotion,  by  carrying  the  thoughts  beyond  the 
representations  of  bodDy  suffering,  to  the  con- 
of  the  intenser  mental  agony, — the 
exhibited  by  the  martyr.  The 
produced,  however,  wfll  not  be  the 
afl  minds ;  they  will  necessarily  vary 
according  to  the  prevailing  temper  and  com- 
plexion of  the  mind  which  receives  them.  As 
there  is  no  sound  where  there  is  no  ear  to  re- 
ceive the  impulses  and  vibrations  of  the  air,  so 
is  mere  no  moral  impression,  —  no  voice  of  in- 
struction from  all  the  works  of  nature,  and  all 
the  imitations  of  art,  —  unless  there  be  within  die 
soul  itself  a  capacity  for  hearing  the  voice  and 
receiving  the  moral  impulse.  The  cause  exists 
eternally  and  universally;  but  the  effect  is  pro- 
duced only  when  and  where  the  cause  has  room 
to  act,  and  just  in  proportion  as  it  has  room  to 
act.  Hence  die  various  moral 


254      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

the  several  degrees  of  the  same  moral  impression, 
which  an  object  may  produce  in  different  minds. 
These  impressions  will  vary  in  kind  and  in  de- 
gree according  to  the  acuteness  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  internal  moral  sense.  And  thus  the 
representations  spoken  of  above  might  exercise 
a  very  favorable  influence  upon  an  enlightened 
and  well  regulated  mind,  and  at  the  same  time 
a  very  unfavorable  influence  upon  an  unenlight- 
ened and  superstitious  one.  And  the  reason  is 
obvious.  An  enlightened  mind  beholds  all  things 
in  their  just  proportions,  and  receives  from  them 
the  true  impressions  they  are  calculated  to  con- 
vey. It  is  not  hoodwinked, — it  is  not  shut  up 
in  a  gloomy  prison,  till  it  thinks  the  walls  of  its 
own  dungeon  the  limits  of  the  universe,  and  the 
reach  of  its  own  chain  the  outer  verge  of  all  in- 
telligence ;  but  it  walks  abroad ;  the  sunshine 
and  the  air  pour  in  to  enlighten  and  expand  it ; 
the  various  works  of  nature  are  its  ministering 
angels  ;  the  glad  recipient  of  light  and  wisdom, 
it  developes  new  powers  and  acquires  increased 
capacities,  and  thus,  rendering  itself  less  subject 
to  error,  assumes  a  nearer  similitude  to  the  Eter- 
nal Mind.  But  not  so  the  dark  and  supersti- 
tious mind.  It  is  filled  with  its  own  antique  and 


THE     DEVOTIONAL    POETRF    OF    SPAIN.      255 

mouldy  furniture,  —  the  moth-eaten  tome,  the 
gloomy  tapestry,  the  dusty  curtain.  The  strag- 
gling sunbeam  from  without  streams  through  the 
stained  window,  and  as  it  enters  assumes  the  col- 
ors of  the  painted  glass ;  while  the  half-extin- 
guished fire  within,  now  smouldering  in  its  ashes, 
and  now  shooting  forth  a  quivering  flame,  casts 
fantastic  shadows  through  the  chambers  of  the 
soul.  Within,  the  spirit  sits,  lost  in  its  own  ab- 
stractions. The  voice  of  nature  from  without 
is  hardly  audible ;  her  beauties  are  unseen,  or 
seen  only  in  shadowy  forms,  through  a  colored 
medium,  and  with  a  strained  and  distorted  vision. 
The  invigorating  air  does  not  enter  that  myste- 
rious chamber;  it  visits  not  that  lonely  inmate, 
who,  breathing  only  a  close,  exhausted  atmos- 
phere, exhibits  in  the  languid  frame  and  fever- 
ish pulse  the  marks  of  lingering,  incurable  dis- 
ease. The  picture  is  not  too  strongly  sketched  ; 
such  is  the  contrast  between  the  free  and  the  su- 
perstitious mind.  Upon  the  latter,  which  has 
little  power  over  its  ideas,  —  to  generalize  them, 
to  place  them  b  their  proper  light  and  position, 
to  reason  upon,  to  discriminate,  to  judge  them 
in  detail,  and  thus  to  arrive  at  just  conclusions  ; 
but.  on  the  contrary,  receives  every  crude  and 


256      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

inadequate  impression  as  it  first  presents  itself, 
and  treasures  it  up  as  an  ultimate  fact,  —  upon 
such  a  mind,  representations  of  Scripture-scenes, 
like  those  mentioned  above,  exercise  an  unfavor- 
able influence.  Such  a  mind  cannot  rightly  es- 
timate, it  cannot  feel,  the  work  of  a  master  ;  and 
a  miserable  painting,  or  a  still  more  miserable 
caricature  carved  in  wood,  will  serve  only  the 
more  to  drag  the  spirit  down  to  earth.  Thus, 
in  the  unenlightened  mind,  these  representations 
have  a  tendency  to  sensualize  and  desecrate  the 
character  of  holy  things.  Being  brought  con- 
stantly before  the  eye,  and  represented  in  a  real 
and  palpable  form  to  the  external  senses,  they 
lose,  by  being  made  too  familiar,  that  peculiar 
sanctity  with  which  the  mind  naturally  invests  the 
unearthly  and  invisible. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  influence  of  the 
circumstances  just  referred  to  upon  the  devo- 
tional poetry  of  Spain.*  Sometimes  it  exhibits 


*  The  following  beautiful  little  hymn  in  Latin,  written  by 
the  celebrated  Francisco  Xavier,  the  friend  and  companion 
of  Loyola,  and  from  his  zeal  in  the  Eastern  missions  sur- 
named  the  Apostle  of  the  Indies,  would  hardly  have  origi- 
nated in  any  mind  but  that  of  one  familiar  with  the  repre- 
sentations of  which  I  have  spoken  above. 


THE    DEYOTIO3CAI.    POETRY    OF    SPAIX.      25? 

itself  directly  and  fiiDy.  sometimes  indirectly  and 
r,  but  always  with  sufficient  clearness 


ODeos!  ego 
fee-wte,* 


igoe. 


Xec 


O  God !  mj  ^im  lone  b«  tkc : 
(ot  tbat  m  heavea  iu  borne  mar  be, 


253      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

to  indicate  its  origin.  Sometimes  it  destroys 
the  beauty  of  a  poem  by  a  miserable  conceit  ; 
at  other  times  it  gives  it  the  character  of  a  beau- 
tiful allegory.* 

But  thou  on  the  accursed  tree 
In  mercy  hast  embraced  me. 
For  me  the  cruel  nails,  the  spear, 
The  ignominious  scoff,  didst  bear, 
Countless,  unutterable  woes,  — 
The  bloody  sweat,  —  death's  pangs  and  throes, — 
These  thou  didst  bear,  all  these  for  me, 
A  sinner  and  estranged  from  thee. 

And  wherefore  no  affection  show, 
Jesus,  to  thee  that  lov'st  me  so  ? 
Not  that  in  heaven  my  home  may  be, 
Not  lest  I  die  eternally,  — 
Nor  from  the  hopes  of  joys  above  me  : 
But  even  as  thou  thyself  didst  love  me, 
So  love  1,  and  will  ever  love  thee  : 
Solely  because  my  King  art  thou, 
My  God  for  evermore  as  now. 
Amen. 

*  I  recollect  but  few  instances  of  this  kind  of  figurative 
poetry  in  our  language.  There  is,  however,  one  of  most 
exquisite  beauty  and  pathos,  far  surpassing  any  thing  I  have 
seen  of  the  kind  in  Spanish.  It  is  a  passage  from  Cowper. 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 
Long  since  :  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixt 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      259 

The  following  sonnets  will  serve  as  illustra- 
tions. They  are  from  the  hand  of  the  wonderful 
Lope  de  Vega  :  — 

Shepherd  !  that  with  thine  amorous  sylvan  song 

Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 

That  madest  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long,  — 

Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains, 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shall  be, 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 

Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd  !  —  thou  that  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 

O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 

Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 

O,  wait .'  —  to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying,  — 

Wait  for  me  !  —  yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  see, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  art  waiting  still  for  me  ? 


Lord,  what  am  I,  that  with  unceasing  care 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me,  —  that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
O  strange  delusion  !  —  that  I  did  not  greet 

My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 

To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 

There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 

Been  hurt  by  archers  ;  in  his  side  he  bore, 

And  in  his  Stands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 

With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  live. 


260      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

Thy  blessed  approach  !  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet ! 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 

"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look  without  and  see 

How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee  !  " 

And  O,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

"  To-morrow  we  will  open  !  "  I  replied  ; 

And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still, "  To-morrow  !  " 

The  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  devotional 
poetry  of  the  Spaniards  is  to  be  found  in  their 
sacred  dramas,  their  Vidas  de  Santos  and  Autos 
Sacramentales.  These  had  their  origin  in  the 
Mysteries  and  Moralities  of  the  dark  ages,  and 
are  indeed  monstrous  creations  of  the  imagination. 
The  Vidas  de  Santos,  or  Lives  of  Saints,  are 
representations  of  their  miracles,  and  of  the  won- 
derful traditions  concerning  them.  The  Jlutos 
Sacramentales  have  particular  reference  to  the 
Eucharist  and  the  ceremonies  of  the  Corpus 
Christi.  In  these  theatrical  pieces  are  intro- 
duced upon  the  stage,  not  only  angels  and  saints, 
but  God,  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin  Mary  ;  and, 
in  strange  juxtaposition  with  these,  devils,  peas- 
ants, and  kings  ;  in  fine,  they  contain  the  strang- 
est medley  of  characters,  real  and  allegorical, 
which  the  imagination  can  conceive.  As  if  this 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAI3T.     261 

were  not  enough,  in  the  midst  of  what  was  in- 
tended as  a  solemn,  religious  celebration,  scenes 
of  low  buffoonery  are  often  introduced. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  .2«to»  which  I 
hare  read  is  "  La  Zferoeum  de  la  OKZ,"  The 
Devotion  of  the  Cross.  It  is  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  of  Cakteron's  sacred  dramas,  and  will 
serve  as  a  specimen  of  that  class  of  writing.  The 
piece  commences  with  a  dialogue  between  L  bar- 
do,  the  son  of  Curcio,  a  decayed  nobleman,  and 
Eusebio,  the  hero  of  the  play  and  lover  of  Julia, 
Lisardo's  sister.  Though  the  father's  extrav- 
agance has  wasted  his  estates,  Lisardo  is  deeply 
offended  that  Eusebio  should  aspire  to  an  affiance 
with  the  family,  and  draws  him  into  a  secluded 
place  in  order  to  settle  their  dispute  whh  the  sword. 
Here  the  scene  opens,  and  in  die  course  of  die 
dialogue  which  precedes  the  combat,  Eusebio  re- 
lates that  be  was  bom  at  the  foot  of  a  cross, 
winch  stood  in  a  rugged  and  desert  part  of  those 
mountains  ;  that  the  virtue  of  this  cross  preserved 
him  from  die  wild  beasts ;  that,  being  found  by 
a  peasant  three  days  after  his  birth,  he  was  car- 
ried to  a  neighbouring  viDage,  and  there  received 
the  name  ^y^usebio  of  the  Cross  ;  that,  being 
thrown  byT»  nurse  into  a  weD,  he  was  beard 


262      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

to  laugh,  and  was  found  floating  upon  the  top  of 
the  water,  with  his  hands  placed  upon  his  mouth 
in  the  form  of  a  cross  ;  that  the  house  in  which 
he  dwelt  being  consumed  by  fire,  he  escaped  un- 
harmed amid  the  flames,  and  it  was  found  to  be 
Corpus  Christi  day ;  and,  in  fine,  after  relating 
many  other  similar  miracles,  worked  by  the  pow- 
er of  the  cross,  at  whose  foot  he  was  born,  he 
says  that  he  bears  its  image  miraculously  stamped 
upon  his  breast.  After  this  they  fight,  and  Li- 
sardo  falls  mortally  wounded.  In  the  next  scene, 
Eusebio  has  an  interview  with  Julia,  at  her  fath- 
er's house ;  they  are  interrupted,  and  Eusebio 
conceals  himself ;  Curcio  enters,  and  informs 
Julia  that  he  has  determined  to  send  her  that 
day  to  a  convent,  that  she  may  take  the  veil, 
"para  ser  de  Cristo  esposa."  While  they  are 
conversing,  the  dead  body  of  Lisardo  is  brought 
in  by  peasants,  and  Eusebio  is  declared  to  be 
the  murderer.  The  scene  closes  by  the  escape 
of  Eusebio.  The  second  act,  or  Jornada,  dis- 
covers Eusebio  as  the  leader  of  a  band  of  rob- 
bers. They  fire  upon  a  traveller,  who  proves 
to  be  a  priest,  named  Alberto,  and  who  is  seek- 
ing a  spot  in  those  solitudes  wherma.tp  establish 
a  hermitage.  The  shot  is  prevented  from  taking 


THE  DEVOTIONAL  POETRT  OF  SPAIN.  963 

effect  by  a  book  which  the  pious  old  man  car- 
ries in  his  bosom,  and  which  be  says  is  a  "  trea- 
tise on  the  true  origin  of  the  divine  and  heavenly 
tree,  on  which,  dying  with  courage  and  fortitude, 
Christ  triumphed  over  death;  in  fine,  the  book 
is  called  the  < Miracles  of  the  Cross.7"  They 
suffer  the  priest  to  depart  unharmed,  who  in  con- 
sequence promises  Eusebio  that  he  shall  not  die 
without  confession,  but  that  wherever  he  may 
be,  if  he  but  caD  upon  his  name,  he  win  hasten 
to  absolve  him.  In  the  mean  time,  Julia  retires 
to  a  convent,  and  Curcio  goes  with  an  armed 
force  in  pursuit  of  Eusebio,  who  has  resolved 
to  gain  admittance  to  Julia's  convent.  He  scales 
the  walls  of  the  convent  by  night,  and  silently 
gropes  his  way  along  the  corridor.  Julia  is  dis- 
covered sleeping  in  her  cell,  with  a  taper  beside 
her.  He  is,  however,  deterred  from  executing 
his  malicious  designs,  by  discovering  upon  her 
breast  the  form  of  a  cross,  similar  to  that  which 
he  bears  upon  his  own,  and  "  Heaven  would  not 
suffer  him,  though  so  great  an  offender,  to  lose 
his  respect  for  the  cross."  To  be  brief,  be 
leaps  from  the  convent-trails  and  escapes  to  the 
mountains.  Julia,  counting  her  honor  lost,  hav- 
ing offended^ God,  "  eomo  a  Duw,  y  como  a  «- 


264     THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

posa,"  pursues  him,  —  descends  the  ladder  from 
the  convent-wall,  and,  when  she  seeks  to  return 
to  her  cell,  finds  the  ladder  has  been  removed. 
In  her  despair,  she  accuses  Heaven  of  having 
withdrawn  its  clemency,  and  vows  to  perform 
such  deeds  of  wickedness  as  shall  terrify  both 
heaven  and  hell. 

The  third  Jornada  transports  the  scene  back 
to  the  mountains.  Julia,  disguised  in  man's  ap- 
parel, with  her  face  concealed,  is  brought  to 
Eusebio  by  a  party  of  the  banditti.  She  chal- 
lenges him  to  single  combat  ;  and  he  accepts  the 
challenge,  on  condition  that  his  antagonist  shall 
declare  who  he  is.  Julia  discovers  herself ;  and 
relates  several  horrid  murders  she  has  committed 
since  leaving  the  convent.  Their  interview  is 
here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  banditti,  who 
inform  Eusebio  that  Curcio,  with  an  armed  force, 
from  all  the  neighbouring  villages,  is  approach- 
ing. The  attack  commences.  Eusebio  and  Cur- 
cio meet,  but  a  secret  and  mysterious  sympathy 
prevents  them  from  fighting  ;  and  a  great  num- 
ber of  peasants,  coming  in  at  this  moment,  rush 
upon  Eusebio  in  a  body,  and  he  is  thrown  down 
a  precipice.  There  Curcio  discovers  him,  ex- 
piring with  his  numerous  wounds.  The  denoue- 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRT    OF    SPAI*.      265 

ment  of  the  piece  commences.  Curcio,  moved 
by  compassion,  examines  a  wound  in  Eusebio's 
breast,  discovers  the  mark  of  the  cross,  and 
thereby  recognizes  him  to  be  his  son.  Eusebio 
expires,  calling  on  the  name  of  Alberto,  who 
shortly  after  enters,  as  if  lost  in  those  mountains. 
A  voice  from  the  dead  body  of  Eusebio  calls 
his  name.  I  shall  here  transcribe  a  part  of  the 


The  wind,  and  otterest  my  name, 
Wbootthoar 

I  am  Ensebk). 

Come,  good  Alberto,  this  way  come, 
Where  sepulchred  I  lie  ; 
Approach,  and  raise  these  branches : 
Fear  not. 

I  do  not  fear. 


266      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

Now  I  behold  thee. 
Speak,  in  God's  holy  name, 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 
Eusebio.  In  his  name, 

My  faith,  Alberto,  called  thee, 

That  previous  to  my  death 

Thou  hearest  my  confession. 

Long  since  I  should  have  died, 

For  this  stiff  corpse  resigned 

The  disembodied  soul ; 

But  the  strong  mace  of  death 

Smote  only,  and  dissevered  not 

The  spirit  and  the  flesh.  [Rises. 

Come,  then,  Alberto,  that  I  may 

Confess  my  sins  ;  for,  O,  they  are 

More  than  the  sands  beside  the  sea, 

Or  motes  that  fill  the  sunbeam  ! 

So  much  with  Heaven  avails 

Devotion  to  the  cross  ! 

Eusebio  then  retires  to  confess  himself  to  Alber- 
to ;  and  Curcio  afterward  relates,  that,  when  the 
venerable  saint  had  given  him  absolution,  his 
body  again  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  Julia  discovers 
herself,  overwhelmed  with  the  thoughts  of  her 
incestuous  passion  for  Eusebio  and  her  other 
crimes,  and  as  Curcio,  in  a  transport  of  indig- 
nation, endeavours  to  kill  her,  she  seizes  a  cross 
which  stands  over  Eusebio's  grave,  and  with  it 
ascends  to  heaven,  while  Alberto  shouts,  "  Gran 
milagro! "  and  the  curtain  falls. 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      267 

Thus  far  I  have  spoken  of  the  devotional  po- 
etry of  Spain  as  modified  by  the  peculiarities 
of  religious  faith  and  practice.  Considered  apart 
from  the  dogmas  of  a  creed,  and  as  the  expres- 
sion of  those  pure  and  elevated  feelings  of  re- 
ligion which  are  not  the  prerogative  of  any  one 
sect  or  denomination,  but  the  common  privilege 
of  all,  it  possesses  strong  claims  to  our  admira- 
tion and  praise.  I  know  of  nothing  in  any  mod- 
ern tongue  so  beautiful  as  some  of  its  finest  pas- 
sages. The  thought  springs  heavenward  from 
the  soul,  —  the  language  comes  burning  from  the 
lip.  The  imagination  of  the  poet  seems  spirit- 
ualized ;  with  nothing  of  earth,  and  all  of  heav- 
en,— a  heaven,  like  that  of  his  own  native  clime, 
without  a  cloud,  or  a  vapor  of  earth,  to  obscure 
its  brightness.  His  voice,  speaking  the  harmo- 
nious accents  of  that  noble  tongue,  seems  to 
flow  from  the  lips  of  an  angel,  —  melodious  to  the 
ear  and  to  the  internal  sense,  —  breathing  those 

"  Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears." 

The  following  sonnets  of  Francisco  de  Alda- 
na,  a  writer  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  his 
conceptions  and  the  harmony  of  his  verse,  are 
illustrations  of  this  remark.  In  what  glowing 


268     THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

language  he  describes  the  aspirations  of  the  soul 
for  its  paternal  heaven,  its  celestial  home !  how 
beautifully  he  portrays  in  a  few  lines  the  strong 
desire,  the  ardent  longing,  of  the  exiled  and  im- 
prisoned spirit  to  wing  its  flight  away  and  be 
at  rest !  The  strain  bears  our  thoughts  upward 
with  it ;  it  transports  us  to  the  heavenly  country  ; 
it  whispers  to  the  soul,  —  Higher,  immortal  spirit ! 
higher  ! 

Clear  fount  of  light !  my  native  land  on  high, 

Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 

Mansion  of  truth  !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 

Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath  ; 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 

With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not  death. 

Beloved  country  !  banished  from  thy  shore, 

A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 

That  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling  be. 


O  Lord  !  that  seest  from  yon  starry  height 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright 


THE    DETOTIOSAL    FOETKT   OP   SFAI3F.     Ml 


them  kaos  given 
To  efeer  fife  i  lower?  ApnJ  firt  oVexj*  ; 
Yet  i»  the  k«T  Winer  of  .rd.^ 
For  erer  green  shall  be  »j  traa  m  Hearea. 
O,  let  AT  fteaeM*  p» 


gfaD  Beet  that  look  of  »erej  fea»  o.  hie^, 
As  the  reflected  image  m  a  gla» 
Doth  Beet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  twes  itt  being  to  the  gazer  s  eye. 

The 

depth  and  sincerity  of  feefing.  The  conception 
is  always  striking  and  original,  and,  when  not  de- 
graded by  dogmas,  and  the  poor,  puerile  con- 

This  results  from  the  frame  and  temperament 
of  the  mind,  and  is  a  general  characteristic  of 
die  Spanish  poets,  not  only  in  mis  department 
of  song,  hot  in  afl  others.  The  rerr  ardor  of 

"......  •:  ~. : :     -  -;  ~. 


when  left  to  act  m  a  higher  and  wider 

1  nearer  to  perfection, 
its  wings  in  the  bright 
of  derodooal  song,  — in  the  pure  empj- 
its   coarse,  but 


270      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

there  is  no  danger  of  its  soaring  too  high.  The 
heavenly  land  still  lies  beyond  its  utmost  flight. 
There  are  heights  it  cannot  reach ;  there  are 
fields  of  air  which  tire  its  wing  ;  there  is  a  splen- 
dor which  dazzles  its  vision  ;  —  for  there  is  a 
glory  "  which  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard, 
nor  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  con- 
ceive." 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  charm  of  the  devo- 
tional poets  of  Spain  is  their  sincerity.  Most 
of  them  were  ecclesiastics,  —  men  who  had  in 
sober  truth  renounced  the  realities  of  this  life 
for  the  hopes  and  promises  of  another.  We  are 
not  to  suppose  that  all  who  take  holy  orders  are 
saints  ;  but  we  should  be  still  farther  from  be- 
lieving that  all  are  hypocrites.  It  would  be  even 
more  absurd  to  suppose  that  none  are  sincere 
in  their  professions  than  that  all  are.  Besides, 
with  whatever  feelings  a  man  may  enter  the  mo- 
nastic life,  there  is  something  in  its  discipline  and 
privations  which  has  a  tendency  to  wean  the  mind 
from  earth,  and  to  fix  it  upon  heaven.  Doubt- 
less many  have  seemingly  renounced  the  world 
from  motives  of  worldly  aggrandizement  ;  and 
others  have  renounced  it  because  it  has  renounc- 
ed them.  The  former  have  carried  with  them 


THE    DEVOTIOXAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      271 

to  the  cloister  their  earthly  ambition,  and  the 
latter  their  dark  misanthropy  ;  and  though  many 
have  dafly  kissed  the  cross  and  yet  grown  hoary 
in  iniquity,  and  shrived  their  souls  that  they 
might  sin  more  gayly  on,  —  yet  solitude  works 
miracles  in  the  heart,  and  many  who  enter  the 
cloister  from  worldly  motives  find  it  a  school 
wherein  the  soul  may  be  trained  to  more  holy 
purposes  and  desires.  There  is  not  half  the 
corruption  and  hypocrisy  within  the  convent's 
walls  that  the  church  bears  the  shame  of  hiding 
there.  Hermits  may  be  holy  men,  though  knaves 
have  sometimes  been  hermits.  Were  they  all 
hypocrites,  who  of  old  for  their  souls'  sake  ex- 
posed their  naked  bodies  to  the  burning  sun  of 
Syria  ?  Were  they,  who  wandered  houseless 
in  the  solitudes  of  Engaddi  ?  Were  they,  who 
dwelt  beneath  the  palm-trees  by  the  Red  Sea  ? 
O,  no  !  They  were  ignorant,  they  were  de- 
luded, they  were  fanatic,  but  they  were  not 
hypocrites  ;  if  there  be  any  sincerity  in  human 
professions  and  human  actions,  they  were  not 
hypocrites.  During  the  Middle  Ages,  there  was 
corruption  in  the  church,  —  foul,  shameful  cor- 
ruption ;  and  now  also  hypocrisy  may  scourge 
itself  in  feigned  repentance,  and  ambition  hide 


272      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OP    SPAIN. 

its  face  beneath  a  hood  ;  yet  all  is  not  therefore 
rottenness  that  wears  a  cowl.  Many  a  pure 
spirit,  through  heavenly-mindedness  and  an  ar- 
dent though  mistaken  zeal,  has  fled  from  the 
temptations  of  the  world  to  seek  in  solitude  and 
self-communion  a  closer  walk  with  God.  And 
not  in  vain.  They  have  found  the  peace  they 
sought.  They  have  felt,  indeed,  what  many  pro- 
fess to  feel,  but  do  not  feel,  —  that  they  are 
strangers  and  sojourners  here,  travellers  who  are 
bound  for  their  home  in  a  far  country.  It  is 
this  feeling  which  I  speak  of  as  giving  a  pecu- 
liar charm  to  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain. 
Compare  its  spirit  with  the  spirit  which  its  au- 
thors have  exhibited  in  their  lives.  They  speak 
of  having  given  up  the  world,  and  it  is  no  po- 
etical hyperbole  ;  they  speak  of  longing  to  be 
free  from  the  weakness  of  the  flesh,  that  they 
may  commence  their  conversation  in  heaven, — 
and  we  feel  that  they  had  already  begun  it  in 
lives  of  penitence,  meditation,  and  prayer. 


PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 


THE  guttering  spires  and  cupolas  of  Madrid 
hare  souk  behind  me.  Again  and  again  I  hare 
tuned  to  take  a  parting  look,  rill  at  length  the 
last  trace  of  the  city  has  disappeared,  and  I  gaze 
only  upon  the  sky  above  it. 

And  now  die  suhry  day  b  passed ;  the  fiesb- 
eribg  twflight  faDs,  and  the  moon  and  the  even- 
ing star  are  in  the  sky.  This  river  is  the  Xara- 
ma.  This  noble  arenoe  of  trees  leads  to  Aran- 
joez.  Already  its  lamps  begin  to  twinkle  in  die 
distance.  The  hoofe  of  our  weary  rales  clatter 
upon  the  wooden  bridge ;  the  public  square  opens 
?  £  yonder,  m  the  moonlight,  pp^iii  the 
18 


274  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

walls  of  the  royal   palace,   and   near  it,  with  a 
rushing  sound,  fall  the  waters  of  the  Tagus. 


WE  have  now  entered  the  vast  and  melan- 
choly plains  of  La  Mancha,  —  a  land  to  which 
the  genius  of  Cervantes  has  given  a  vulgo-classic 
fame.  Here  are  the  windmills,  as  of  old  ;  every 
village  has  its  Master  Nicholas,  —  every  venta 
its  Mari tomes.  Wondrous  strong  are  the  spells 
of  fiction  !  A  few  years  pass  away,  and  his- 
tory becomes  romance,  and  romance,  history. 
To  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  Don  Quixote  and 
his  squire  are  historic  personages  ;  and  woe  be- 
tide the  luckless  wight  who  unwarily  takes  the 
name  of  Dulcinea  upon  his  lips  within  a  league 
of  El  Toboso !  The  traveller,  too,  yields  him- 
self to  the  delusion ;  and  as  he  traverses  the 
arid  plains  of  La  Mancha,  pauses  with  willing 
credulity  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  mad  Hi- 
dalgo, with  his  "  velvet  breeches  on  a  holy  day, 
and  slippers  of  the  same."  The  high-road  from 
Aranjuez  to  Cordova  crosses  and  recrosses  the 
knight-errant's  path.  Between  Manzanares  and 
Valdepenas  stands  the  inn  where  he  was  dubbed 
a  knight ;  to  the  northward,  the  spot  where  he 


THE   PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  275 

encountered  the  windmills  ;  to  the  westward,  the 
inn  where  he  made  the  balsam  of  Fierabras,  the 
scenes  of  his  adventures  with  the  fulling-mills, 
and  his  tournament  with  the  barber;  and  to  the 
southward,  the  Sierra  Morena,  where  he  did  pen- 
ance, like  the  knights  of  olden  time. 

For  my  own  part,  I  confess  that  there  are 
seasons  when  I  am  willing  to  be  the  dupe  of  my 
imagination  ;  and  if  this  harmless  folly  but  lends 
its  wings  to  a  dull-paced  hour,  I  am  even  ready 
to  believe  a  fairy  tale. 


Ox  the  fourth  day  of  our  journey  we  dined 
at  Manzanares,  in  an  old  and  sombre-looking 
inn,  which,  I  think,  some  centuries  back,  must 
have  been  the  dwelling  of  a  grandee.  A  wide 
gateway  admitted  us  into  the  inn-yard,  which 
was  a  paved  court,  in  the  centre  of  the  edifice, 
surrounded  by  a  colonnade,  and  open  to  the  sky 
above.  Beneath  this  colonnade  we  were  shaved 
by  the  village  barber,  a  supple,  smooth-faced 
Figaro,  with  a  brazen  laver  and  a  gray  montera 
cap.  There,  too,  we  dined  in  the  open  air, 
with  bread  as  white  as  snow,  and  the  rich  red 
wine  of  Valdepecas  ;  and  there,  in  the  listless- 


276  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

ness  of  after-dinner,  smoked  the  sleep-inviting 
cigar,  while  in  the  court-yard  before  us  the  mu- 
leteers danced  a  fandango  with  the  maids  of 
the  inn,  to  such  music  as  three  blind  musicians 
could  draw  from  a  violin,  a  guitar,  and  a  clar- 
inet. When  this  scene  was  over,  and  the 
blind  men  had  groped  their  way  out  of  the  yard, 
I  fell  into  a  delicious  slumber,  from  which  I 
was  soon  awakened  by  music  of  another  kind. 
It  was  a  clear,  youthful  voice,  singing  a  national 
song  to  the  sound  of  a  guitar.  I  opened  my 
eyes,  and  near  me  stood  a  tall,  graceful  figure, 
leaning  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  colon- 
nade, in  the  attitude  of  a  serenader.  His  dress 
was  that  of  a  Spanish  student.  He  wore  a  black 
gown  and  cassock,  a  pair  of  shoes  made  of  an 
ex-pair  of  boots,  and  a  hat  in  the  shape  of  a 
half-moon,  with  the  handle  of  a  wooden  spoon 
sticking  out  on  one  side  like  a  cockade.  When 
he  had  finished  his  song,  we  invited  him  to  the 
remnant  of  a  Vich  sausage,  a  bottle  of  Valde- 
penas,  bread  at  his  own  discretion,  and  a  pure 
Havana  cigar.  The  stranger  made  a  leg,  and 
accepted  these  signs  of  good  company  with  the 
easy  air  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed  to  earn 
his  livelihood  by  hook  or  by  crook  ;  and  as 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  277 

the  wine  was  of  that  stark  and  generous  kind 
which  readily  "  ascends  one  into  the  brain,"  our 
gentleman  with  the  half-moon  hat  grew  garrulous 
and  full  of  anecdote,  and  soon  told  us  his  own 
story,  beginning  with  his  birth  and  parentage,  like 
the  people  in  Gil  Bias. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  a  barber,"  quoth  he  ;  "  and 
first  saw  the  light  some  twenty  years  ago,  in  the 
great  city  of  Madrid.  At  a  very  early  age,  I 
was  taught  to  do  something  for  myself,  and  be- 
gan my  career  of  gain  by  carrying  a  slow-match 
in  the  Prado,  for  the  gentlemen  to  light  their 
cigars  with,  and  catching  the  wax  that  dropped 
from  the  friars'  tapers  at  funerals  and  other  re- 
ligious processions. 

"  At  school  I  was  noisy  and  unruly  ;  and  was 
finally  expelled  for  hooking  the  master's  son  with 
a  pair  of  ox-horns,  which  I  had  tied  to  my  head, 
in  order  to  personate  the  bull  in  a  mock  bull- 
fight. Soon  after  this  my  father  died,  and  I 
went  to  live  with  my  maternal  uncle,  a  curate 
in  Fuencarral.  He  was  a  man  of  learning,  and 
resolved  that  I  should  be  like  him.  He  set  his 
heart  upon  making  a  physician  of  me  ;  and  to 
this  end  taught  me  Latin  and  Greek. 

"  In  due  time  I  was  sent  to  the   University 


278  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

of  Alcala.  Here  a  new  world  opened  before 
me.  What  novelty,  —  what  variety,  —  what  ex- 
citement !  But,  alas  !  three  months  were  hardly 
gone,  when  news  came  that  my  worthy  uncle 
had  passed  to  a  better  world.  I  was  now  left 
to  shift  for  myself.  I  was  penniless,  and  lived 
as  I  could,  not  as  I  would.  I  became  a  sopisla, 
a  soup-eater,  —  a  knight  of  the  wooden  spoon. 
I  see  you  do  not  understand  me.  In  other  words, 
then,  I  became  one  of  that  respectable  body 
of  charity  scholars  who  go  armed  with  their 
wooden  spoons  to  eat  the  allowance  of  eleemosy- 
nary soup  which  is  daily  served  out  to  them 
at  the  gate  of  the  convents.  I  had  no  longer 
house  nor  home.  But  necessity  is  the  mother 
of  invention.  I  became  a  hanger-on  of  those 
who  were  more  fortunate  than  myself;  studied 
in  other  people's  books,  slept  in  other  peo- 
ple's beds,  and  breakfasted  at  other  people's 
expense.  This  course  of  life  has  been  demor- 
alizing, but  it  has  quickened  my  wits  to  a  won- 
derful degree. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  life  of  the  Gran  Ta- 
cano,  by  Quevedo  ?  In  the  first  book  you  have 
a  faithful  picture  of  life  in  a  Spanish  university. 
What  was  true  in  his  day  is  true  in  ours.  O 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARV.  279 

Alcala  !  Alcala  !  if  your  walls  had  tongues  as 
well  as  ears,  what  tales  could  they  repeat !  what 
midnight  frolics  !  what  madcap  revelries  !  what 
scenes  of  merriment  and  mischief !  How  merry 
is  a  student's  life,  and  yet  how  changeable  ! 
Alternate  feasting  and  fasting,  —  alternate  Lent 
and  Carnival,  —  alternate  want,  and  extravagance  ! 
Care  given  to  the  winds, — no  thought  beyond 
the  passing  hour  ;  yesterday,  forgotten, — to-mor- 
row, a  word  in  an  unknown  tongue  ! 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  raising  the  dead?  not 
literally,  —  but  such  as  the  student  raised,  when 
he  dug  for  the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro  Gar- 
cias,  at  the  fountain  between  Penafiel  and  Sal- 
amanca, — money  ?  No  ?  Well,  it  is  done  after 
this  wise.  Gambling,  you  know,  is  our  great 
national  vice ;  and  then  gamblers  are  so  dishon- 
est !  Now,  our  game  is  to  cheat  the  cheater. 
We  go  at  night  to  some  noted  gaming-house,  — 
five  or  six  of  us  in  a  body.  We  stand  around 
the  table,  watch  those  that  are  at  play,  and  oc- 
casionally put  in  a  trifle  ourselves  to  avoid  sus- 
picion. At  length  the  favorable  moment  ar- 
rives. Some  eager  player  ventures  a  large  stake. 
I  stand  behind  his  chair.  He  wins.  As  quick 
as  thought,  I  stretch  my  arm  over  his  shoulder 


280  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

and  seize  the  glittering  prize,  saying  very  coolly, 
4 1  have  won  at  last.'  My  gentleman  turns  round 
in  a  passion,  and  I  meet  his  indignant  glance 
with  a  look  of  surprise.  He  storms,  and  I  ex- 
postulate ;  he  menaces,  —  I  heed  his  menaces 
no  more  than  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  that  has  burnt 
his  wings  in  my  lamp.  He  calls  the  whole  table 
to  witness  ;  but  the  whole  table  is  busy,  each 
with  his  own  gain  or  loss,  and  there  stand  my 
comrades,  all  loudly  asserting  that  the  stake  was 
mine.  What  can  he  do  ?  there  was  a  mistake  ; 
he  swallows  the  affront  as  best  he  may,  and  we 
bear  away  the  booty.  This  we  call  raising  the 
dead.  You  say  it  is  disgraceful,  —  dishonest. 
Our  maxim  is,  that  all  is  fair  among  sharp- 
ers :  Baylar  al  son  que  se  toca,  —  Dance  to  any 
tune  that  is  fiddled.  Besides,  as  I  said  before, 
poverty  is  demoralizing.  One  loses  the  nice 
distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  meum  and 
tuum. 

"  Thus  merrily  pass  the  hours  of  term-time. 
When  the  summer  vacations  come  round,  I  sling 
my  guitar  over  my  shoulder,  and  with  a  light 
heart,  and  a  lighter  pocket,  scour  the  country, 
like  a  strolling  piper  or  a  mendicant  friar.  Like 
the  industrious  ant,  in  summer  I  provide  for  win- 


THE  PILGRIMS  BREVIARF.  2~l 

ter ;  for  in  vacation  we  have  time  for  reflection, 
and  make  the  peat  discovery,  that  there  is  a 
portion  of  time  called  the  future.  I  pick  up  a 
trifle  here  and  a  trifle  there,  in  all  the  towns 
and  Villages  through  which  I  pass,  and  before 
the  end  of  my  tour  I  find  myself  quite  rich  — 
for  the  son  of  a  barber.  This  we  call  the  rida 
tu*ante*ea,  —  a  ras-tag-and-bobtail  sort  of  life. 
And  yet  the  vocation  is  as  honest  as  that  of  a 
begging  Franciscan.  Why  not  ? 

11  And  now,  gentlemen,  having  dined  at  your 
expense,  with  your  leave  I  will  put  this*  loaf 
of  bread  and  the  remains  of  this  exceDent  Vich 
sausage  into  my  pocket,  and,  thanking  you  for 
your  kind  hospitality,  bid  you  a  good  afternoon. 
God  be  with  you,  gentlemen  !  " 


L?  general,  the  aspect  of  La  Mancha  is  des- 
olate and  sad.  Around  you  lies  a  parched  and 
sunburnt  plain,  which,  like  the  ocean,  has  no 
limits  but  the  sky;  and  straight  before  you,  for 
many  a  weary  league,  runs  the  dusty  and  level 
road,  without  the  shade  of  a  single  tree.  The 
vflages  you  pass  through  are  poverty-stricken 
and  half-depopulated ;  and  the  squalid  inhab- 


282  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

itants  wear  a  look  of  misery  that  makes  the 
heart  ache.  Every  league  or  two,  the  ruins  of  a 
post-house,  or  a  roofless  cottage  with  shattered 
windows  and  blackened  walls,  tells  a  sad  tale 
of  the  last  war.  It  was  there  that  a  little  band 
of  peasantry  made  a  desperate  stand  against  the 
French,  and  perished  by  the  bullet,  the  sword, 
or  the  bayonet.  The  lapse  of  many  years  has 
not  changed  the  scene,  nor  repaired  the  bat- 
tered wall ;  and  at  almost  every  step  the  trav- 
eller may  pause  and  exclaim  :  — 

"  Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host ; 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dragon's  nest." 

From  Valdepenas  southward  the  country  wears 
a  more  lively  and  picturesque  aspect.  The  land- 
scape breaks  into  hill  and  valley,  covered  with 
vineyards  and  olive-fields  ;  and  before  you  rise 
the  dark  ridges  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  lifting 
their  sullen  fronts  into  a  heaven  all  gladness  and 
sunshine.  Ere  long  you  enter  the  wild  moun- 
tain-pass of  Despena-Perros.  A  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  brings  you  to  a  stone  column,  sur- 
mounted by  an  iron  cross,  marking  the  boundary 
line  between  La  Mancha  and  Andalusia.  Upon 
one  side  of  this  column  is  carved  a  sorry-look- 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARF.  233 

ing  face,  not  unlike  the  death's-heads  on  the 
tombstones  of  a  country  church-yard.  Over  it 
is  written  this  inscription  :  —  "  EL  VERDADERO 
RETRATO  DE  LA  SANTA  CARA  DEL  DIGS  DE 
XAEN,"  —  The  true  portrait  of  the  holy  coun- 
tenance of  the  God  of  Xaen  !  I  was  so  much 
struck  with  this  strange  superscription  that  I  stop- 
ped to  copy  it. 

"  Do  you  realJy  believe  that  this  is  what  it 
pretends  to  be  ?  "  said  I  to  a  muleteer,  who  was 
watching  my  movements. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  he,  shrugging  his 
brawny  shoulders  ;  "  they  say  it  is." 

"  Who  says  it  is  ?  " 

"  The  priest,  — the  Padre  Cura." 

"  I  supposed  so.  And  how  was  this  portrait 
taken  ?  " 

He  could  not  tell.  The  Padre  Cura  knew 
all  about  it. 

When  I  joined  my  companions,  who  were  a 
little  in  advance  of  me  with  the  carriage,  I  got 
the  mystery  explained.  The  Catholic  church 
boasts  of  three  portraits  of  our  Saviour,  mi- 
raculously preserved  upon  the  folds  of  a  hand- 
kerchief, with  which  St.  Veronica  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  brow,  on  the  day  of  the  cruci- 


284  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

fixion.     One  of  these  is   at  Toledo,  another  in 
the  kingdom  of  Xaen,  and  the  third  at  Rome. 


THE  impression  which  this  monument  of  su- 
perstition made  upon  my  mind  was  soon  effaced 
by  the  magnificent  scene  which  now  burst  upon 
me.  The  road  winds  up  the  mountain-side  with 
gradual  ascent  ;  wild,  shapeless,  gigantic  crags 
overhang  it  upon  the  right,  and  upon  the  left 
the  wary  foot  starts  back  from  the  brink  of  a 
fearful  chasm  hundreds  of  feet  in  depth.  Its 
sides  are  black  with  ragged  pines,  and  rocks 
that  have  toppled  down  from  above  ;  and  at  the 
bottom,  scarcely  visible,  wind  the  silvery  waters 
of  a  little  stream,  a  tributary  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir. The  road  skirts  the  ravine  for  miles,  — 
now  climbing  the  barren  rock,  and  now  sliding 
gently  downward  into  shadowy  hollows,  and 
crossing  some  rustic  bridge  thrown  over  a  wild 
mountain-brook. 

At  length  the  scene  changed.  We  stood  upon 
the  southern  slope  of  the  Sierra,  and  looked 
down  upon  the  broad,  luxuriant  valleys  of  An- 
dalusia, bathed  in  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  a 
southern  sunset.  The  landscape  had  already  as- 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIART.  285 

sumed  the  "  burnished  livery"  of  autumn;  but 
the  air  I  breathed  was  the  soft  and  balmy  breath 
of  spring,  —  the  eternal  spring  of  Andalusia. 

If  ever  you  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  visit 
this  part  of  Spain,  stop  for  the  night  at  the  vil- 
lage of  La  Carolina.  It  is  indeed  a  model  for 
all  villages,  —  with  its  broad  streets,  its  neat, 
white  houses,  its  spacious  market-place  sur- 
rounded with  a  colonnade,  and  its  public  walk 
ornamented  widi  fountains  and  set  out  with  lux- 
uriant trees.  I  doubt  whether  all  Spain  can 
show  a  village  more  beautiful  than  this. 


THE  approach  to  Cordova  from  the  east  is 
enchanting.  The  sun  was  just  rising  as  we 
crossed  the  Guadalquivir  and  drew  near  to  the 
city  ;  and,  alighting  from  the  carriage,  I  pur- 
sued my  way  on  foot,  the  better  to  enjoy  the 
scene  and  the  pure  morning  air.  The  dew  still 
glistened  on  every  leaf  and  spray  ;  for  the  burn- 
ing sun  had  not  yet  climbed  the  tall  hedge-row 
of  wild  fig-tree  and  aloes  which  skirts  the  road- 
side. The  highway  wound  along  through  gar- 
dens, orchards,  and  vineyards,  and  here  and 
there  above  me  towered  the  glorious  palm  in 


286  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

all  its  leafy  magnificence.  On  my  right,  a  swell- 
ing mountain-ridge,  covered  with  verdure  and 
sprinkled  with  little  white  hermitages,  looked 
forth  towards  the  rising  sun  ;  and  on  the  left, 
in  a  long,  graceful  curve,  swept  the  bright  wa- 
ters of  the  Guadalquivir,  pursuing  their  silent 
journey  through  a  verdant  reach  of  soft  lowland 
landscape.  There,  amid  all  the  luxuriance  of 
this  sunny  clime,  arises  the  ancient  city  of  Cor- 
dova, though  stripped,  alas  !  of  its  former  mag- 
nificence. All  that  reminds  you  of  the  past 
is  the  crumbling  wall  of  the  city,  and  a  Saracen 
mosque,  now  changed  to  a  Christian  cathedral. 
The  stranger,  who  is  familiar  with  the  history 
of  the  Moorish  dominion  in  Spain,  pauses  with 
a  sigh,  and  asks  himself,  Is  this  the  imperial  city 
of  Alhakam  the  Just,  and  Abdoulrahman  the 
Magnificent  ? 


THIS,  then,  is  Seville,  that  "pleasant  city, 
famous  for  oranges  and  women."  After  all  I 
have  heard  of  its  beauty,  I  am  disappointed  in 
finding  it  less  beautiful  than  my  imagination  had 
painted  it.  The  wise  saw,  — 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIAKT.  -r7 


He  nbi>  to&  not  seen  Seville  has  seen  no  mar- 
vel, —  is  an  Andamsian  gasconade.  This,  how- 
ever, b  the  judgment  of  a  traveller  weary  and 
wayworn  with  a  journey  of  twelve  successive 
days  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  mules  ;  and  I  am 
wefl  iwiic  bow  mnrn  our  opinions  of  men  and 
things  are  colored  by  these  trivial  Ob.  A  sad 
spirit  is  fike  a  rainy  day  ;  its  mists  and  shadows 
darken  the  brightest  sky,  and  clothe  the  fairest 


I  am,  likewise,  a  disappointed  mail  m  another 
respect.  I  have  come  all  die  way  from  Madrid 
to  Seville  without  being  robbed!  And  mis, 
too,  when  I  journeyed  at  a  snail's  pace,  and  had 
bought  a  watch  Urge  enough  for  the  clock  of  a 
Tillage  church,  for  the  express  purpose  of  hav- 
ing it  violendy  torn  from  me  by  a  fierce-whis- 
kered highwayman,  with  his  blunderbuss  and  his, 
"Boca  abajo,  fadhmef.'"  If  I  print  mis  in  a 
book,  I  am  undone.  What!  travel  in  Spain 
and  not  be  robbed  !  To  be  sure,  I  came  very 
near  it  more  than  once.  Almost  every  viDage 
we  passed  through  had  its  tale  to  tell  of  atro- 
cities committed  in  the  neighbourhood.  In  one 


288  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

place,  the  stage-coach  had  been  stopped  and 
plundered ;  in  another,  a  man  had  been  mur- 
dered and  thrown  into  the  river  ;  here  and  there 
a  rude  wooden  cross  and  a  shapeless  pile  of 
stones  marked  the  spot  where  some  unwary  trav- 
eller had  met  his  fate ;  and  at  night,  seated  around 
the  blazing  hearth  of  the  inn-kitchen,  my  fellow- 
travellers  would  converse  in  a  mysterious  under- 
tone of  the  dangers  we  were  to  pass  through 
on  the  morrow.  But  the  morrow  came  and 
went,  and,  alas  !  neither  salteador,  nor  ratero 
moved  a  finger.  At  one  place,  we  were  a  day 
too  late  ;  at  another,  a  day  too  early. 

I  am  now  at  the  Fonda  de  los  Americanos. 
My  chamber-door  opens  upon  a  gallery,  beneath 
which  is  a  little  court  paved  with  marble,  having 
a  fountain  in  the  centre.  As  I  write,  I  can  just 
distinguish  the  tinkling  of  its  tiny  jet,  falling  into 
the  circular  basin  with  a  murmur  so  gentle  that 
it  scarcely  breaks  the  silence  of  the  night.  At 
day-dawn  I  start  for  Cadiz,  promising  myself  a 
•  pleasant  sail  down  the  Guadalquivir.  All  I  shall 
be  able  to  say  of  Seville  is  what  I  have  written 
above,  —  that  it  is  "  a  pleasant  city,  famous  for 
oranges  and  women." 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  25J 

I  AM  at  length  in  Cadiz.  I  came  across  the 
bay  yesterday  morning  hi  an  open  boat  from 
Santa  Maria,  and  have  established  myself  in 
very  pleasant  rooms,  which  look  out  upon  the 
Plaza  de  San  dntonio,  the  public  square  of  the 
city.  The  morning  sun  awakes  me,  and  at  even- 
ing the  sea-breeze  comes  in  at  my  window.  At 
night  the  square  is  lighted  by  lamps  suspended 
from  the  trees,  and  thronged  with  a  brilliant  crowd 
of  the  young  and  gay. 

Cadiz  is  beautiful  almost  beyond  imagination. 
The  cities  of  our  dreams  are  not  more  enchant- 
ing. It  lies  like  a  delicate  sea-shell  upon  the 
brbk  of  the  ocean,  so  wondrous  fair  that  it  seems 
not  formed  for  man.  In  sooth,  the  Paphian 
queen,  born  of  the  feathery  sea-foam,  dwells 
here.  It  is  the  city  of  beauty  and  of  love. 

The  women  of  Cadiz  are  world-renowned  for 
their  loveliness.  Surely  earth  has  none  more 
dazzling  than  a  daughter  of  that  bright,  burning 
clime.  What  a  faultless  6gure  !  what  a  dainty 
foot !  what  dignity  !  what  matchless  grace  ! 

"  What  eyes,  —  what  lips,  —  what  every  thing  about  her  ! 
How  like  a  swan  she  swims  her  pace,  and  bears 
Her  silver  breasts !  " 

The  Gaditana  is  not  ignorant  of  her  charms. 
19 


290  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

She  knows  full  well  the  necromancy  of  a  smile. 
You  see  it  in  the  flourish  of  her  fan,  —  a  magic 
wand,  whose  spell  is  powerful ;  you  see  it  in 
her  steady  gaze,  the  elastic  step, 

"The  veil, 

Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 
While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart." 

When  I  am  grown  old  and  gray,  and  sit  by 
the  fireside  wrapped  in  flannels,  if,  in  a  listless 
moment,  recalling  what  is  now  the  present,  but 
will  then  be  the  distant  and  almost  forgotten 
past,  I  turn  over  the  leaves  of  this  journal  till 
my  watery  eye  falls  upon  the  page  I  have  just 
written,  I  shall  smile  at  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  I  have  sketched  this  portrait.  And  where 
will  then  be  the  bright  forms  that  now  glance 
before  me,  like  the  heavenly  creations  of  a 
dream  ?  All  gone,  —  all  gone  !  Or,  if  per- 
chance a  few  still  linger  upon  earth,  the  silver 
cord  will  be  loosed,  —  they  will  be  bowed  with 
age  and  sorrow,  saying  their  paternosters  with 
a  tremulous  voice. 

Old  age  is  a  Pharisee  ;  for  he  makes  broad 
his  phylacteries,  and  wears  them  upon  his  brow, 


THE   PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  291 

inscribed  with  prayer,  but  in  the  "  crooked  auto- 
graph "  of  a  palsied  hand.  "  I  see  with  pain," 
says  Madame  de  Pompadour,  "  that  there  is 
nothing  durable  upon  earth.  We  bring  into  the 
world  a  fair  face,  and  lo  !  in  less  than  thirty- 
years  it  is  covered  with  wrinkles  ;  after  which 
a  woman  is  no  longer  good  for  any  thing." 

Were  I  to  translate  these  sombre  reflections 
into  choice  Castilian,  and  read  them  to  the  bright- 
eyed  houri  who  is  now  leaning  over  the  balcony 
opposite,  she  would  laugh,  and  laughing  say, 
"Cuando  el  demonio  es  ri«j0,  st  mctefrayle." 


THE  devotion  paid  at  the  shrine  of  the  Vir- 
gin is  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  charac- 
teristic features  of  the  Catholic  religion.  In 
Spain  it  is  one  of  its  most  attractive  features. 
In  the  southern  provinces,  in  Granada  and  in 
Andalusia,  which  the  inhabitants  call  "  La  tierra 
de  Jl/aria  San/wima,"  —  the  land  of  the  most 
holy  Man*,  —  this  adoration  is  ardent  and  enthu- 
siastic. There  is  one  of  its  outward  observan- 
ces which  struck  me  as  peculiarly  beautiful  and 
impressive.  I  refer  to  the  Ave  Maria,  an  even- 
ing service  of  the  Virgin.  Just  as  the  evening 


292  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

twilight  commences,  the  bell  tolls  to  prayer. 
In  a  moment,  throughout  the  crowded  city,  the 
hum  of  business  is  hushed,  the  thronged  streets 
are  still  ;  the  gay  multitudes  that  crowd  the  pub- 
lic walks  stand  motionless  ;  the  angry  dispute 
ceases  ;  the  laugh  of  merriment  dies  away  ;  life 
seems  for  a  moment  to  be  arrested  in  its  career, 
and  to  stand  still.  The  multitude  uncover  their 
heads,  and,  with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  whisper 
their  evening  prayer  to  the  Virgin.  Then  the 
bells  ring  a. merrier  peal ;  the  crowds  move  again 
in  the  streets,  and  the  rush  and  turmoil  of  busi- 
ness recommence.  I  have  always  listened  with 
feelings  of 'solemn  pleasure  to  the  bell  that  sound- 
ed forth  the  Ave  Maria.  As  it  announced  the 
close  of  day,  it  seemed  also  to  call  the  soul 
from  its  worldly  occupations  to  repose  and  devo- 
tion. There  is  something  beautiful  in  thus  meas- 
uring the  march  of  time.  The  hour,  too,  nat- 
urally brings  the  heart  into  unison  with  the  feel- 
ings and  sentiments  of  devotion.  The  close  of 
the  day,  the  shadows  of  evening,  the  calm  of 
twilight,  inspire  a  feeling  of  tranquillity;  and 
though  I  may  differ  from  the  Catholic  in  regard 
to  the  object  of  his  supplication,  yet  it  seems 
to  me  a  beautiful  and  appropriate  solemnity,  that, 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIART.  293 

at  the  close  of  each  daily  epoch  of  life,  — which, 
if  it  have  not  been  fruitful  in  incidents  to  our- 
selves, has,  nevertheless,  been  so  to  many  of 
the  great  human  family,  —  the  voice  of  a  whole 
people,  and  of  the  whole  world,  should  go  up 
to  heaven  in  praise,  and  supplication,  and  thank- 
fulness. 


"  THE  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  coral  town ; 
From  Elvira's  sates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Albania !  " 

Thus  commences  one  of  the  fine  "old  Span- 
ish ballad?,  commemorating  the  downfall  of  the 
city  of  Albama,  where  we  have  stopped  to  rest 
our  horses  on  their  fatiguing  march  from  Velez- 
Malaga  to  Granada.  Albania  was  one  of  the 
last  strongholds  of  the  Moslem  power  in  Spain. 
Its  fall  opened  the  way  for  the  Christian  army 
across  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and  spread  conster- 
nation and  despair  through  the  city  of  Granada. 
The  description  in  the  old  ballad  is  highly  graph- 
ic and  beautiful ;  and  its  beauty  is  well  preserved 
in  the  spirited  English  translation  by  Lord  Bvron. 


294  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

As  we  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the  snowy 
mountains  that  look  down  upon  the  luxuriant 
Vega  of  Granada,  we  overtook  a  solitary  rider, 
who  was  singing  a  wild  national  song,  to  cheer 
the  loneliness  of  his  journey.  He  was  an  ath- 
letic man,  and  rode  a  spirited  horse  of  the  Arab 
breed.  A  black  bearskin  jacket  covered  his 
broad  shoulders,  and  around  his  waist  was  wound 
the  crimson  /a/a,  so  universally  worn  by  the 
Spanish  peasantry.  His  velvet  breeches  reached 
below  his  knee,  just  meeting  a  pair  of  leather 
gaiters  of  elegant  workmanship.  A  gay  silken 
handkerchief  was  tied  round  his  head,  and  over 
this  he  wore  the  little  round  Andalusian  hat, 
decked  out  with  a  profusion  of  tassels  of  silk 
and  bugles  of  silver.  The  steed  he  mounted 
was  dressed  no  less  gayly  than  his  rider.  There 
was  a  silver  star  upon  his  forehead,  and  a  bright- 
colored  woollen  tassel  between  his  ears ;  a  blanket 
striped  with  blue  and  red  covered  the  saddle, 
and  even  the  Moorish  stirrups  were  ornamented 
with  brass  studs. 

This  personage  was  a  contrabandista,  —  a 
smuggler  between  Granada  and  the  seaport  of 
Velez-Malaga.  The  song  he  sung  was  one  of 
the  popular  ballads  of  the  country. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  EREVIARV.  295 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 

And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried  ; 

Onward !  caballito  mio, 

With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead  ! 

Onward  !  here  comes  the  patrol, 

And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack  ! 

Ay,jaleo!     Ay,  ay.jaleo! 

Ay,  jaleo !  they  cross  oar  track  !  * 

The  air  to  which  these  words  are  sung  is  wild 
and  high  ;  and  the  prolonged  and  mournful  ca- 
dence gives  it  the  sound  of  a  funeral  wail,  or  a 
cry  for  help.  To  have  its  full  effect  upon  the 
mind,  it  should  be  heard  by  night,  in  some  wild 


*  I  here  transcribe  the  original  of  which  this  is  a  single 
stanza.  Its  only  merit  is  simplicity,  and  a  certain  grace 
which  belongs  to  its  provincial  phraseology,  and  which 
would  be  lost  in  a  translation. 

"  Yo  que  soy  contrabandist, 
Y  campo  per  mi  respeto, 
A  todos  los  desafio, 
Porque  a  naide  tengo  mieo. 
j  Ay,  jaleo  !     ;  Muchachas,  jaleo  ! 
,  Qoien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ? 

"  Mi  caballo  esta  cansao, 
Y  yo  me  marcho  corriendo. 
;  Anda,  caballito  mio, 
Caballo  mio  careto ! 


296  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

mountain-pass,  and  from  a  distance.  Then  the 
harsh  tones  come  softened  to  the  ear,  and,  in 
unison  with  the  hour  and  the  scene,  produce  a 
pleasing  melancholy. 

The  contrabandista  accompanied  us  to  Gra- 
nada. The  sun  had  already  set  when  we  en- 
tered the  Vega, — those  luxuriant  meadows  which 
stretch  away  to  the  south  and  west  of  the  city, 
league  after  league  of  rich,  unbroken  verdure. 
It  was  Saturday  night;  and,  as  the  gathering 
twilight  fell  around  us,  and  one  by  one  the  lamps 
of  the  city  twinkled  in  the  distance,  suddenly 
kindling  here  and  there,  as  the  stars  start  to  their 
places  in  the  evening  sky,  a  loud  peal  of  bells 
rang  forth  its  glad  welcome  to  the  day  of  rest, 


;  Anda,  que  viene  la  ronda, 
Y  se  mueve  el  tiroteo  ! 
;  Ay,  jaleo  !     ;  Ay,  ay,  jaleo  ! 
i  Ay,  jaleo,  que  nos  cortan  ! 
Sacaroe  de  aqueste  aprieto. 

"  Mi  caballo  ya  no  cone, 
Ya  mi  caballo  paro. 
Todo  para  en  este  mundo, 
Tambien  he  de  parar  yo. 
;  Ay,  jaleo  !     ;  Muchachas,  jaleo 
j  Quien  me  cotnpra  jilo  negro?  " 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  297 

over  the  meadows  to  the  distant  hills,  "swine- 
ing  slow,  with  solemn  roar." 


Is  this  reality  and  not  a  dream  ?  Am  I  in- 
deed in  Granada  ?  Am  I  indeed  within  the 
walls  of  that  earthly  paradise  of  the  Moorish 
kings  ?  How  my  spirit  is  stirred  within  me  ! 
How  my  heart  is  lifted  up  !  How  my  thoughts 
are  rapt  away  in  the  visions  of  other  days  ! 

Ate,  Maria  purisrima !  It  is  midnight.  The 
bell  has  tolled  the  hour  from  the  watchtower 
of  the  Alhambra  ;  and  the  silent  street  echoes 
only  to  the  watchman's  cry,  .ire,  Gloria  pu- 
risiima !  I  am  alone  in  my  chamber, — sleepless, 
—  spell-bound  by  the  genius  of  the  place,  —  en- 
tranced by  the  beauty  of  the  star-lit  night.  As 
I  gaze  from  my  window,  a  sudden  radiance 
brightens  in  the  east.  It  is  the  moon,  rising 
behind  the  Alhambra.  I  can  faintly  discern  the 
dusky  and  indistinct  outline  of  a  massive  tower, 
standing  amid  the  uncertain  twilight,  like  a  gi- 
gantic shadow.  It  changes  with  the  rising  moon, 
as  a  palace  in  the  clouds,  and  other  towers  and 
battlements  arise,  —  every  moment  more  distinct, 
more  palpable,  till  now  they  stand  between  me 


298  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

and  the  sky,  with  a  sharp  outline,  distant,  and  yet 
so  near  that  I  seem  to  sit  within  their  shadow. 

Majestic  spirit  of  the  night,  I  recognize  thee ! 
Thou  hast  conjured  up  this  glorious  vision  for 
thy  votary.  Thou  hast  baptized  me  with  thy 
baptism.  Thou  hast  nourished  my  soul  with 
fervent  thoughts  and  holy  aspirations,  and  ar- 
dent longings  after  the  beautiful  and  the  true. 
Majestic  spirit  of  the  past,  I  recognize  thee  ! 
Thou  hast  bid  the  shadow  go  back  for  me  upon 
the  dial-plate  of  time.  Thou  hast  taught  me 
to  read  in  thee  the  present  and  the  future,  —  a 
revelation  of  man's  destiny  on  earth.  Thou  hast 
taught  me  to  see  in  thee  the  principle  that  un- 
folds itself  from  century  to  century  in  the  pro- 
gress of  our  race,  —  the  germ  in  whose  bosom 
lie  unfolded  the  bud,  the  leaf,  the  tree.  Gen- 
erations perish,  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest, 
passing  away  when  their  mission  is  completed  ; 
but  at  each  succeeding  spring,  broader  and  high- 
er spreads  the  human  mind  unto  its  perfect  stat- 
ure, unto  the  fulfilment  of  its  destiny,  unto  the 
perfection  of  its  nature.  And  in  these  high  rev- 
elations, thou  hast  taught  me  more,  —  thou  hast 
taught  me  to  feel  that  I,  too,  weak,  humble,  and 
unknown,  feeble  of  purpose  and  irresolute  of 


THE   rrLCBIM*S    KKEVIAKT.  299 

good,  lore  snmrthmg  to  accomplish  upon  earth, 
—Eke  the  iaffing  leaf,  ike  the  passing  wind, 
ike  the  drop  of  nin.  O  gtorious  thought !  that 
lifts  me  above  the  power  of  time  and  dance, 
aid  tefls  me  that  I  cannot  pass  away,  and  leave 
no  mark  of  my  existence.  I  mar  not  know  the 
of  my  bemg,  — the  end  for  which  an 
Providence  created  me  as  I  am,  and 
placed  me  where  I  am ;  hot  I  do  know  —  for  in 
such  times  &hh  is  knowledge  —  that  my  hems 
has  a  purpose  m  the  oimr>oence  ol  my  Creator, 

to  the  fafl  accomplishment  of  that  purpose.     Is 
tms&Bity?    No.     I  feel  that  I  am  free,  though 


God  disposes.     This  is  one  of  the 


Yonder  towers,  mat  stand  so  buz< 
in  the  midnight  air,  the  work  of 
that  hare  long  since  forgotten  their 
die  grave,  and  once  die  home  of 

filled  fike  os  wiu 
of  good  and  flL  — 
of 


300  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

creative  mind.  These  are  landmarks  of  other 
times.  Thus  from  the  distant  past  the  history 
of  the  human  race  is  telegraphed  from  generation 
to  generation,  through  the  present  to  all  succeed- 
ing ages.  These  are  manifestations  of  the  hu- 
man mind  at  a  remote  period  of  its  history,  and 
among  a  people  who  came  from  another  clime,  — 
the  children  of  the  desert.  Their  mission  is 
accomplished,  and  they  are  gone  ;  yet  leaving 
behind  them  a  thousand  records  of  themselves 
and  of  their  ministry,  not  as  yet  fully  manifest, 
but  "  seen  through  a  glass  darkly,"  dimly  shad- 
owed forth  in  the  language,  and  character,  and 
manners,  and  history  of  the  nation,  that  was  by 
turns  the  conquered  and  the  conquering.  The 
Goth  sat  at  the  Arab's  feet ;  and  athwart  the 
cloud  and  storm  of  war,  streamed  the  light  of 
Oriental  learning  upon  the  Western  world, — 

"  As  when  the  autumnal  sun, 
Through  travelling  rain  and  mist, 
Shines  on  the  evening  hills." 


THIS  morning  I  visited  the  Alhambra  ;  an 
enchanted  palace,  whose  exquisite  beauty  baffles 
the  power  of  language  to  describe.  Its  outlines 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIART.  301 

mar  be  drawn,  —  its  halls  and  galleries,  its  court- 
yards and  its  fountains,  numbered  ;  but  what  skil- 
ful limner  shall  portray  in  words  its  curious  ar- 
chitecture, the  grotesque  ornaments,  the  quaint  de- 
vices, the  rich  tracery  of  the  walls,  the  ceilings 
inlaid  with  pearl  and  tortoise-shell  ?  what  lan- 
guage paint  the  magic  hues  of  light  and  shade, 
the  shimmer  of  the  sunbeam  as  it  falls  upon  the 
marble  pavement,  and  the  brilliant  panels  inlaid 
with  many-colored  stones  ?  Vague  recollections 
fill  my  mind,  —  images  dazzling  but  undefined, 
like  the  memory  of  a  gorgeous  dream.  They 
crowd  my  brain  confusedly,  but  they  will  not 
stay  ;  they  change  and  mingle,  like  the  trem- 
ulous sunshine  on  the  wave,  till  imagination  itself 
is  dazzled,  —  bewildered,  —  overpowered  ! 

What  most  arrests  the  stranger's  foot  within 
the  walls  of  the  Alhambra  is  the  refinement  of 
luxury  which  he  sees  at  every  step.  He  lin- 
gers in  the  deserted  bath, — he  pauses  to  gaze 
upon  the  now  vacant  saloon,  where,  stretched 
upon  his  gilded  couch,  the  effeminate  monarch 
of  the  East  was  wooed  to  sleep  by  softly  breath- 
ing music.  What  more  delightful  than  this  se- 
cluded garden,  green  with  the  leaf  of  the  myrtle 
and  the  orange,  and  freshened  with  the  gush  of 


302  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

fountains,  beside  whose  basin  the  nightingale  still 
wooes  the  blushing  rose  ?  What  more  fanciful, 
more  exquisite,  more  like  a  creation  of  Oriental 
magic,  than  the  lofty  tower  of  the  Tocador,  —  its 
airy  sculpture  resembling  the  fretwork  of  wintry 
frost,  and  its  windows  overlooking  the  romantic 
valley  of  the  Darro  ;  and  the  city,  with  its  gar- 
dens, domes,  and  spires,  far,  far  below  ?  Cool 
through  this  lattice  comes  the  summer  wind,  from 
the  icy  summits  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  Softly 
in  yonder  fountain  falls  the  crystal  water,  drip- 
ping from  its  marble  vase  with  never-ceasing 
sound.  On  every  side  comes  up  the  fragrance 
of  a  thousand  flowers,  the  murmur  of  innumer- 
able leaves  ;  and  overhead  is  a  sky  where  not 
a  vapor  floats,  —  as  soft,  and  blue,  and  radiant 
as  the  eye  of  childhood  ! 

Such  is  the  Alhambra  of  Granada  ;  a  fortress, 
—  a  palace,  —  an  earthly  paradise,  —  a  ruin, 
wonderful  in  its  fallen  greatness  ! 


ITALY, 


JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 


What  1  catch  ts  at  present  only  sketch-ways,  as  h  were 
at  I  prepare  myself  betimes  ftr  the  Italian  journey. 

GOETHE'S  FACST. 


ON  the  afternoon  of  the  fifteenth  of  Decem- 
ber, in  the  rear  of  grace  one  thousand  eight 
bandied  and  tnu.fr  m*im,  I  left  Marseilles  for 
Genoa,  taking  the  sea-shore  road  through  Tou- 
lon, Draguignan,  and  Nice.  This  journey  is 
written  in  my  memoir  with  a  sunbeam.  We 
were  a  company  whom  chance  had  thrown  to- 
gether, —  different  in  ages .  humors ,  and  pursuits, 
—  and  vet  so  roerruy  the  days  *»ojl  bv.  m  sun- 
shine, wind,  or  rain,  that  methmks  some  lucky 
star  must  hare  ruled  the  hour  that  brought  us 
five  so  auspiciously  together.  But  where  is  now 
that  merry  company  ?  One  sleeps  in  his  youth- 
ful grave ;  two  sit  in  their  fatherland,  and  "  coin 
their  brain  for  their  dauy  bread  "  ;  and  the  ofh- 
•D 


306  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

ers,  —  where  are  they  ?  If  still  among  the  liv- 
ing, I  beg  them  to  remember  in  their  prayers  the 
humble  historian  of  their  journey  from  Marseilles 
to  Genoa. 

At  Toulon  we  took  a  private  carriage,  in 
order  to  pursue  our  journey  more  leisurely  and 
more  at  ease.  I  well  remember  the  strange,  out- 
landish vehicle,  and  our  vetturino  Joseph,  with 
his  blouse,  his  short-stemmed  pipe,  his  limping 
gait,  his  comical  phiz,  and  the  lowland  dialect 
his  mother  taught  him  at  Avignon.  Every  scene, 
every  incident  of  the  journey  is  now  before  me 
as  if  written  in  a  book.  The  sunny  landscapes 
of  the  Var,  —  the  peasant  girls,  with  their  broad- 
brimmed  hats  of  straw,  —  the  inn  at  Draguignan, 
with  its  painting  of  a  lady  on  horseback,  under- 
written in  French  and  English,  "  Une  jeune  dame 
a  la  promenade,  —  A  young  ladi  taking  a  walk," 
—  the  mouldering  arches  of  the  Roman  aqueducts 
at  Frejus,  standing  in  the  dim  twilight  of  morning 
like  shadowy  apparitions  of  the  past,  —  the  wood- 
ed bridge  .across  the  Var,  —  the  glorious  amphi- 
theatre of  hills  that  half  encircle  Nice,  —  the  mid- 
night scene  at  the  village  inn  of  Monaco,  —  the 
mountain-road  overhanging  the  sea  at  a  dizzy 
height,  and  its  long,  dark  passages  cut  through 


THE   JOOKKEY    INTO    ITALY.  307 

the  solid  rock,  —  the  tumbling  mountain- torrent, 
—  and  a  fortress  perched  on  a  jutting  spur  of  the 
Alps  ;  these,  and  a  thousand  varied  scenes  and 
landscapes  of  this  journey,  rise  before  me,  as  if 
still  visible  to  die  eye  of  sense,  and  not  to  that 
of  memory  only.  And  yet  I  will  not  venture 
upon  a  minute  description  of  diem.  I  have  not 
colors  bright  enough  for  such  landscapes  ;  and 
besides,  even  the  most  determined  lovers  of  the 
picturesque  grow  weary  of  long  descriptions  ; 
though,  as  the  French  guide-book  says  of  these 
scenes,  "  Tout  cela  fait  MM  douU  «»  tpcctacle, 
admiral!" 


Oy  the  tendi  day  of  our  journey,  we  reached 
Genoa,  die  chy  of  palaces,  —  the  superb  chy. 
The  writer  of  an  old  book,  called  "  Time's 
Storehouse,"  thus  poetically  describes  its  sit- 
uation : — "  This  citric  is  most  proudly  built  upon 
the  seacoast  and  die  downefall  of  the  Appenines, 
at  the  foot  of  a  mountaine  ;  even  as  if  she  were 
descended  downe  the  mount,  and  come  to  repose 
berseUe  uppon  a  plaine." 

It  was  Christmas  eve,  —  a  glorious  night !  I 
stood  at  midnight  on  the  wide  terrace  of  our 


308  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

hotel,  which  overlooks  the  sea,  and,  gazing  on 
the  tiny  and  crisping  waves  that  broke  in  pearly 
light  beneath  the  moon,  sent  back  my  wandering 
thoughts  far  over  the  sea,  to  a  distant  home. 
The  jangling  music  of  church-bells  aroused  me 
from  my  dream.  It  was  the  sound  of  jubilee 
at  the  approaching  festival  of  the  Nativity,  and 
summoned  alike  the  pious  devotee,  the  curious 
stranger,  and  the  gallant  lover  to  the  church  of 
the  Annunziata. 

I  descended  from  the  terrace,  and,  groping  my 
way  through  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow  lanes 
which  intersect  the  city  in  all  directions,  soon 
found  myself  in  the  Strada  Nuova.  The  long 
line  of  palaces  lay  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light, 
stretching  before  me  in  magical  perspective,  like 
the  long,  vapory  opening  of  a  cloud  in  the  sum- 
mer sky.  Following  the  various  groups  that 
were  passing  onward  towards  the  public  square, 
I  entered  the  church,  where  midnight  mass  was 
to  be  chanted.  A  dazzling  blaze  of  light  from 
the  high  altar  shone  upon  the  red  marble  columns 
which  support  the  roof,  and  fell  with  a  solemn 
effect  upon  the  kneeling  crowd  that  filled  the 
body  of  the  church.  All  beyond  was  in  dark- 
ness ;  and  from  that  darkness  at  intervals  burst 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY.  309 

forth  the  deep  voice  of  the  organ  and  the  chant- 
ing of  the  choir,  filling  the  soul  with  solemnity 
and  awe.  And  yet,  among  that  prostrate  crowd, 
how  many  had  been  drawn  thither  by  unworthy 
motives,  —  motives  even  more  unworthy  than 
mere  idle  curiosity  !  How  many  sinful  purposes 
arose  in  souls  unpurified,  and  mocked  at  the 
bended  knee  !  How  many  a  heart  beat  wild 
with  earthly  passion,  while  the  unconscious  lip 
repeated  the  accustomed  prayer  !  Immortal 
spirit  !  canst  thou  so  heedlessly  resist  the  im- 
ploring voice  that  calls  thee  from  thine  errors 
and  pollutions  ?  Is  not  the  long  day  long 
enough,  is  not  the  wide  world  wide  enough,  has 
not  society  frivolity  enough  for  thee,  that  thou 
shouldst  seek  out  this  midnight  hour,  this  holy 
place,  this  solemn  sacrifice,  to  add  irreverence  to 
thy  My  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  a  column  stood  a  young  man 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  earnestly  conversing  in  a 
low  whisper  with  a  female  figure,  so  veiled  as 
to  hide  her  face  from  the  eyes  of  all  but  her 
companion.  At  length  they  separated.  The 
young  man  continued  leaning  against  the  column, 
and  the  girl,  gliding  silently  along  the  dimly  light- 
ed aisle,  mingled  with  the  crowd,  and  threw  her- 


310  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

self  upon  her  knees.  Beware,  poor  girl,  thought 
I,  lest  thy  gentle  nature  prove  thy  undoing  ! 
Perhaps,  alas  !  thou  art  already  undone  !  And 
I  almost  heard  the  evil  spirit  whisper,  as  in  the 
Faust,  "  How  different  was  it  with  thee,  Marga- 
ret, when,  still  full  of  innocence,  thou  earnest 
to  the  altar  here,  —  out  of  the  well  worn  little 
book  lispedst  prayers,  half  child-sport,  half  God 
in  the  heart !  Margaret,  where  is  thy  head  ? 
What  crime  in  thy  heart  !  " 

The  city  of  Genoa  is  magnificent  in  parts, 
but  not  as  a  whole.  The  houses  are  high,  and 
the  streets  in  general  so  narrow  that  in  many 
of  them  you  may  almost  step  across  from  side 
to  side.  They  are  built  to  receive  the  cool  sea- 
breeze,  and  shut  out  the  burning  sun.  Only 
three  of  them  —  if  my  memory  serves  me  — 
are  wide  enough  to  admit  the  passage  of  car- 
riages ;  and  these  three  form  but  one  continuous 
street,  —  the  street  of  palaces.  They  are  the 
Strada  Nuova,  the  Strada  Novissima,  and  the 
Strada  Balbi,  which  connect  the  Piazza  Amo- 
rosa  with  the  Piazza  dell'  Annunziata.  These 
palaces,  the  Doria,  the  Durazzo,  the  Ducal  Pal- 
ace, and  others  of  less  magnificence,  —  with  their 
vast  halls,  their  marble  staircases,  vestibules,  and 


THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY.  311 

terraces,  and  the  aspect  of  splendor  and  mu- 
nificence they  wear,  —  have  given  this  commer- 
cial city  the  title  of  Genoa  the  Superb.  And, 
as  if  to  humble  her  pride,  some  envious  rival 
among  the  Italian  cities  has  launched  at  her  a 
biting  sarcasm  in  the  well  known  proverb,  "  Mart 
stnza  pescc,  uomini  senza  fedc,  e  donne  senza 
ttrgogna^  —  A  sea  without  fish,  men  without 
probity,  and  women  without  modesty  ! 


THE  road  from  Genoa  to  Lucca  strongly  re- 
sembles that  from  Nice  to  Genoa.  It  runs  along 
the  seaboard,  now  dipping  to  the  water's  edge, 
and  now  climbing  the  zigzag  mountain-pass, 
with  toppling  crags,  and  yawning  chasms,  and 
verdant  terraces  of  vines  and  olive-trees.  Many 
a  sublime  and  many  a  picturesque  landscape 
catches  the  traveller's  eye,  now  almost  weary 
with  gazing  ;  and  still  brightly  painted  upon  my 
mind  lies  a  calm  evening  scene  on  the  borders 
of  the  Gulf  of  Spezia,  with  its  broad  sheet 
of  crystal  water,  —  the  blue-tinted  hills  that  form 
its  oval  basin,  —  the  crimson  sky  above,  and  its 
bright  reflection,  — 


312  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

«  Where  it  lay 

Deep  bosomed  in  the  still  and  quiet  hay, 
The  sea  reflecting  all  that  glowed  above, 
Till  a  new  sky,  softer  but  not  so  gay, 
Arched  in  its  bosom,  trembled  like  a  dove." 


PISA,  the  melancholy  city,  with  its  Leaning 
Tower,  its  Campo  Santo,  its  bronze-gated  ca- 
thedral, and  its  gloomy  palaces,  —  Florence  the 
Fair,  with  its  magnificent  Duomo,  its  gallery  of 
ancient  art,  its  gardens,  its  gay  society,  and  its 
delightful  environs,  —  Fiesole,  Camaldoli,  Val- 
lombrosa,  and  the  luxuriant  Val  d'  Arno ;  —  these 
have  been  so  often  and  so  beautifully  described 
by  others,  that  I  need  not  repeat  the  twice-told 


AT  Florence  I  took  lodgings  in  a  house  which 
looks  upon  the  Piazza  Novella.  In  front  of  my 
windows  was  the  venerable  church  of  Santa  Ma- 
ria Novella,  in  whose  gloomy  aisles  Boccaccio 
has  placed  the  opening  scene  of  his  Decamerone. 
There,  when  the  plague  was  raging  in  the  city, 
one  Tuesday  morning,  after  mass,  the  "  seven 
ladies,  young  and  fair,"  held  counsel  together, 


TMK  JVETBSCT    OSTO    ITAL.T. 


It  b  the  wvk  of  a 


He  not  hare  been  a 


fradlf  as  JOB  step  cat  ino  ike  opet  ik 


314  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

are  ready  to  ask,  Is  this  indeed  a  representation 
of  reality  ?  Can  this  pure  air  have  been  laden 
with  pestilence  ?  Can  this  gay  city  have  ever 
been  a  city  of  the  plague  ? 

The  work  of  the  Sicilian  artist  is  admirable 
as  a  piece  of  art ;  the  description  of  the  Flo- 
rentine prose-poet  equally  admirable  as  a  piece 
of  eloquence.  "  How  many  vast  palaces,"  he 
exclaims,  "  how  many  beautiful  houses,  how 
many  noble  dwellings,  aforetime  filled  with  lords 
and  ladies  and  trains  of  servants,  were  now  un- 
tenanted  even  by  the  lowest  menial  !  How  many 
memorable  families,  how  many  ample  heritages, 
how  many  renowned  possessions,  were  left  with- 
out an  heir  !  How  many  valiant  men,  how  many 
beautiful  women,  how  many  gentle  youths  break- 
fasted in  the  morning  with  their  relatives,  com- 
panions, and  friends,  and,  when  the  evening  came, 
supped  with  their  ancestors  in  the  other  world  !  " 


I  MET  with  an  odd  character  at  Florence,  — a 
complete  humorist.  He  was  an  Englishman  of 
some  forty  years  of  age,  with  a  round,  good- 
humored  countenance,  and  a  nose  that  wore  the 
livery  of  good  company.  He  was  making  the 


THE    JOrTCET   OTTO    ITJLLT.  '  .  : 


srand  itwi  tuuugn  fiance  and  Italy,  and  bone 
asun  by  die  way  of  die  Tyrol  and  die  Rhine. 
He  aarefied  post,  wife  a  dodbie-barfefled  gon, 

He  bad  been  m  Rone  wkhont  seen*  St.  Peter's, 
—he  did  not  care  about  k  ;  be  bad  seen  St. 
Paul*?  in  London,  He  bad  been  in  Xaples  wkb- 

diej  told  bank 
but  a  pared 

of  dark  streets  and  old  waDs."     The 
object  be  seemed  to  bare  in  liew  was  to 


-  iTUm    _1    -_j    ••••11  •     ff  tano  A    1? -n 

•Kieuioiv  auuBi.  sujLe  oi  nme.     .A.  nonan  aone- 


churches,  and  am  ancient  rani  or  so,  were  only  a 
breakfast  for  bin.  Hodnag  came  amks  ;  not  a 
stone  was  left  untmnaL  A  cky  was  &e  a  dn- 

Ereiy  object  seemed  of  equal 
parlance.     He  siw  ibetn  »D  :  iber 


316       THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

Life  is  short,  and  art  is  long  ;  yet  spare  me 
from  thus  travelling  with  the  speed  of  thought, 
and  trotting,  from  daylight  until  dark,  at  the  heels 
of  a  cicerone,  with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand,  and 
a  guide-book  and  plan  of  the  city  in  the  other. 


I  COPIED  the  following  singular  inscription  from 
a  tombstone  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Leg- 
horn. It  is  the  epitaph  of  a  lady,  written  by 
herself,  and  engraven  upon  her  tomb  at  her  own 
request. 

"  Under  this  stone  lies  the  victim  of  sorrow 
Fly,  wandering  stranger,  from  her  mouldering  dust, 
Lest  the  rude  wind,  conveying  a  particle  thereof  unto  thee, 
Should  communicate  that  venom  melancholy 
That  has  destroyed  the  strongest  frame  and  liveliest  spirit. 
With  joy  of  heart  has  she  resigned  her  breath, 
A  living  martyr  to  sensibility  !  " 


How  inferior  in  true  pathos  is  this  inscription  to 
one  in  the  cemetery  of  Bologna  ;  — 

"  Lucrezia  Picini 
Implora  eterna  pace." 

Lucretia  Picini  implores  eternal  peace  ! 

From  Florence  to  Rome  I   travelled   with   a 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALT.      317 

vetturino,  by  the  way  of  Siena.  We  were  six 
days  upon  the  road,  and,  like  Peter  Rugg  in  the 
story-book,  were  followed  constantly  by  clouds 
and  rain.  At  times,  the  sun,  not  all-forgetful  of 
the  world,  peeped  from  beneath  his  cowl  of  mist, 
and  kissed  the  swarthy  face  of  his  beloved  land  ; 
and  then,  like  an  anchorite,  withdrew  again  from 
earth,  and  gave  himself  to  heaven.  Day  after 
day  the  mist  and  the  rain  were  my  fellow-trav- 
ellers ;  and  as  I  sat  wrapped  in  the  thick  folds 
of  my  Spanish  cloak,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
misty  landscape  and  the  leaden  sky,  I  was  contin- 
ually saying  to  myself,  "  Can  this  be  Italy  ? " 
and  smiling  at  the  untravelled  credulity  of  those 
who,  amid  the  storms  of  a  northern  winter,  give 
way  to  the  illusions  of  fancy,  and  dream  of  Italy 
as  a  sunny  land,  where  no  wintry  tempest  beats, 
and  where,  even  in  January,  the  pale  invalid  may 
go  about  without  his  umbrella,  or  his  India-rubber 
walk-in-the-waters . 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  with  the  help  of  a 
good  constitution  and  a  thick  pair  of  boots,  I  con- 
trived to  see  all  that  was  to  be  seen  upon  the 
road.  I  walked  down  the  long  hillside  at  San 
Lorenzo,  and  along  the  border  of  the  Lake  of 
Bolsena,  which,  veiled  in  the  driving  mist, 


318  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

stretched  like  an  inland  sea  beyond  my  ken  ;  and 
through  the  sacred  forest  of  oak,  held  in  super- 
stitious reverence  by  the  peasant,  and  inviolate 
from  his  axe.  I  passed  a  night  at  Montefiascone, 
renowned  for  a  delicate  Muscat  wine,  which  bears 
the  name  of  Est,  and  made  a  midnight  pilgrimage 
to  the  tomb  of  the  Bishop  John  Defoucris,  who 
died  a  martyr  to  his  love  of  this  wine  of  Monte- 
fiascone. 

"  Propter  minium  Est,  Est,  Est, 
Dominus  metis  mortuus  est." 

A  marble  slab  in  the  pavement,  worn  by  the  foot- 
steps of  pilgrims  like  myself,  covers  the  dominie's 
ashes.  There  is  a  rude  figure  carved  upon  it,  at 
whose  feet  I  traced  out  the  cabalistic  words, 
"Est,  Est,  Est."  The  remainder  of  the  in- 
scription was  illegible  by  the  flickering  light  of  the 
sexton's  lantern. 

At  Baccano  I  first  caught  sight  of  the  dome 
of  Saint  Peter's.  We  had  entered  the  deso- 
late Campagna  ;  we  passed  the  Tomb  of  Nero, 
—  we  approached  the  Eternal  City  ;  but  no 
sound  of  active  life,  no  thronging  crowds,  no 
hum  of  busy  men,  announced  that  we  were  near 
the  gates  of  Rome.  All  was  silence,  solitude, 
and  desolation. 


ROME  IN   MIDSUMMER. 


She  who  tamed  the  world  seemed  to  tame  herself  at  last, 
and,  falling  under  her  own  weight,  grew  to  be  a  prey  to  Time, 
who  with  his  iron  teeth  consumes  all  bodies  at  last,  making 
all  things,  both  animate  and  inanimate,  which  have  their  be- 
ing under  that  changeling,  the  moon,  to  be  subject  unto  cor- 
ruption and  desolation. 

HOWELL'S  SIGNORIE  OF  VENICE. 


THE  masks  and  mummeries  of  Carnival  are 
over  ;  the  imposing  ceremonies  of  Holy  Week 
have  become  a  tale  of  the  times  of  old ;  the  illu- 
mination of  St.  Peter's  and  the  Girandola  are  no 
longer  the  theme  of  gentle  and  simple  ;  and  final- 
ly, the  barbarians  of  the  North  have  retreated 
from  the  gates  of  Rome,  and  left  the  Eternal 
City  silent  and  deserted.  The  cicerone  stands  at 
the  corner  of  the  street  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  ;  the  artist  has  shut  himself  up  in  his 
studio  to  muse  upon  antiquity,  ;  and  the  idle 
facchino  lounges  in  the  market-place,  and  plays 
at  mora  by  the  fountain.  Midsummer  has  come ; 


320  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

and  you  may  now  hire  a  palace  for  what,  a  few 
weeks  ago,  would  hardly  have  paid  your  night's 
lodging  in  its  garret. 

I  am  still  lingering  in  Rome,  —  a  student,  not 
an  artist,  —  and  have  taken  lodgings  in  the  Piaz- 
za Navona,  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and  one 
of  the  largest  and  most  magnificent  squares  of 
modern  Rome.  It  occupies  the  site  of  the  an- 
cient amphitheatre  of  Alexander  Severus  ;  and  the 
churches,  palaces,  and  shops  that  now  surround 
it  are  huilt  upon  the  old  foundations  of  the  amphi- 
theatre. At  each  extremity  of  the  square  stands 
a  fountain  ;  the  one  with  a  simple  jet  of  crys- 
tal water,  the  other  with  a  triton  holding  a  dol- 
phin by  the  tail.  In  the  centre  rises  a  nobler 
work  of  art ;  a  fountain  with  a  marble  basin  more 
than  two  hundred  feet  in  circumference.  From 
the  midst  uprises  a  huge  rock,  pierced  with  grot- 
toes, wherein  sit  a  rampant  sea-horse,  and  a  lion 
couchant.  On  the  sides  of  the  rock  are  four 
colossal  statues,  representing  the  four  principal 
rivers  of  the  world ;  and  from  its  summit,  forty 
feet  from  the  basin  below,  shoots  up  an  obelisk 
of  red  granite,  covered  with  hieroglyphics,  and 
fifty  feet  in  height,  —  a  relic  of  the  amphitheatre 
of  Caracalla. 


ROME    Cf    MIDSUMMER.  o21 

In  tins  quarter  of  the  chy  I  hare  domicfliated 
myself,  in  a  family  of  whose  many  kindnesses  I 
shall  always  retain  the  most  lively  and  grateful 
remembrance.  My  mornings  are  spent  in  visit- 
ing the  wonders  of  Rome,  in  studying  the  mir- 
acles of  ancient  and  modern  art,  or  in  reading 
at  the  public  libraries.  We  breakfast  at  noon, 
and  dine  at  eight  in  the  evening.  After  dinner 
comes  the  conversazione,  enlivened  with  musk, 
and  the  meeting  of  travellers,  artists,  and  literary 
men  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe.  At  mid- 
night, when  the  crowd  is  gone,  I  retire  to  my 
chamber,  and,  poring  over  the  gloomy  pages  of 
Dante,  or  "  BandefiVs  laughing  tale,"  protract 
my  nightly  vigfl  till  the  morning  star  is  in  the  sky. 

Our  windows  look  out  upon  the  square,  which 
circumstance  is  a  source  of  infinite  enjoyment 
to  me.  Directly  in  front,  with  its  fantastic  bel- 
fries and  swelling  dome,  rises  the  church  of  St. 
Agnes  ;  and  sitting  by  the  open  window,  I  note 
the  busy  scene  below,  enjoy  the  cool  ah*  of 
morning  and  evening,  and  even  feel  the  freshness 
of  the  fountain,  as  its  waters  leap  in 
cades  down  the  sides  of  the  rock. 


322  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

THE  Piazza  Navona  is  the  chief  market-place 
of  Rome  ;  and  on  market-days  is  filled  with 
a  noisy  crowd  of  the  Roman  populace,  and  the 
peasantry  from  the  neighbouring  villages  of  Al- 
bano  and  Frascati.  At  such  times  the  square 
presents  an  animated  and  curious  scene.  The 
gayly  decked  stalls,  —  the  piles  of  fruits  and  veg- 
etables, —  the  pyramids  of  flowers,  —  the  various 
costumes  of  the  peasantry,  —  the  constant  move- 
ment of  the  vast,  fluctuating  crowd,  and  the  deaf- 
ening clamor  of  their  discordant  voices,  that 
rise  louder  than  the  roar  of  the  loud  ocean,  — 
all  this  is  better  than  a  play  to  me,  and  gives  me 
amusement  when  naught  else  has  power  to  amuse. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  sultry  month 
of  August,  this  spacious  square  is  converted  into 
a  lake,  by  stopping  the  conduit-pipes  which  carry 
off  the  water  of  the  fountains.  Vehicles  of  every 
description,  axle-deep,  drive  to  and  fro  across 
the  mimic  lake  ;  a  dense  crowd  gathers  around 
its  margin,  and  a  thousand  tricks  excite  the  loud 
laughter  of  the  idle  populace.  Here  is  a  fel- 
low groping  with  a  stick  after  his  seafaring  hat ; 
there  another  splashing  in  the  water  in  pursuit 
of  a  mischievous  spaniel,  who  is  swimming  away 
with  his  shoe  ;  while  from  a  neighbouring  bal- 


Ttekoneof  the 


ic  of  nmth. 
oftfaemaB.     It 


is  aliod  of 
barf. 


"Half  tie  OTnd 


of  a 

rick 

of  me  A 


id  «ri  I  meem,  had  they  1 
Dusropa,  they  w«dd 


324  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

ON  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Janiculum,  now 
called,  from  its  yellow  sands,  Montorio,  or  the 
Golden  Mountain,  stands  the  fountain  of  Acqua 
Paola,  the  largest  and  most  abundant  of  the  Ro- 
man fountains.  It  is  a  small  Ionic  temple,  with 
six  columns  of  reddish  granite  in  front,  a  spa- 
cious hall  and  chambers  within,  and  a  garden  with 
a  terrace  in  the  rear.  Beneath  the  pavement,  a 
torrent  of  water  from  the  ancient  aqueducts  of 
Trajan,  and  from  the  lakes  of  Bracciano  and 
Martignano,  leaps  forth  in  three  beautiful  cas- 
cades, and  from  the  overflowing  basin  rushes 
down  the  hill-side  to  turn  the  busy  wheels  of  a 
dozen  mills. 

The  key  of  this  little  fairy  palace  is  in  our 
hands,  and  as  often  as  once  a  week  we  pass  the 
day  there,  amid  the  odor  of  its  flowers,  the  rush- 
ing sound  of  its  waters,  and  the  enchantments 
of  poetry  and  music.  How  pleasantly  the  sultry 
hours  steal  by  !  Cool  comes  the  summer  wind 
from  the  Tiber's  mouth  at  Ostia.  Above  us  is 
a  sky  without  a  cloud  ;  beneath  us  the  magnifi- 
cent panorama  of  Rome  and  the  Campagna, 
bounded  by  the  Abruzzi  and  the  sea.  Glorious 
scene  !  one  glance  at  thee  would  move  the  dull- 
est soul,  —  one  glance  can  melt  the  painter  and 
the  poet  into  tears  ! 


ROME     IN    MIDSUMMER.  325 

In  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  foun- 
tain are  many  objects  worthy  of  the  stranger's 
notice.  A  bowshot  down  the  hill-side  towards 
the  city  stands  the  convent  of  San  Pietro  in 
Montorio  ;  and  in  the  cloister  of  this  convent 
is  a  small,  round  Doric  temple,  built  upon  the 
spot  which  an  ancient  tradition  points  out  as  the 
scene  of  St.  Peter's  martyrdom.  In  the  oppo- 
site direction  the  road  leads  you  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  hill,  and  out  through  the  city-gate  to  gar- 
dens and  villas  beyond.  Passing  beneath  a  lofty 
arch  of  Trajan's  aqueduct,  an  ornamented  gate- 
way on  the  left  admits  you  to  the  Villa  Pamfili- 
Doria,  built  on  the  western  declivity  of  the  hill. 
This  is  the  largest  and  most  magnificent  of  the 
numerous  villas  that  crowd  the  immediate  envi- 
rons of  Rome.  Its  spacious  terraces,  its  marble 
statues,  its  woodlands  and  green  alleys,  its  lake 
and  waterfalls  and  fountains,  give  it  an  air  of 
courtly  splendor  and  of  rural  beauty,  which  real- 
izes the  beau  ideal  of  a  suburban  villa. 

This  is  our  favorite  resort,  when  we  have 
passed  the  day  at  the  fountain,  and  the  afternoon 
shadows  begin  to  fall.  There  we  sit  on  the 
broad  marble  steps  of  the  terrace,  gaze  upon 
the  varied  landscape  stretching  to  the  misty  sea, 


326  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

or  ramble  beneath  the  leafy  dome  of  the  wood- 
land and  along  the  margin  of  the  lake, 

"  And  drop  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 
Down  in  those  depths  so  calm  and  cool." 

O,  did  we  but  know  when  we  are  happy  ! 
Could  the  restless,  feverish,  ambitious  heart  be 
still,  but  for  a  moment  still,  and  yield  itself, 
without  one  farther-aspiring  throb,  to  its  enjoy- 
ment,—  then  were  I  happy,  — yes,  thrice  happy  ! 
But  no  ;  this  fluttering,  struggling,  and  impris- 
oned spirit  beats  the  bars  of  its  golden  cage,  — 
disdains  the  silken  fetter  ;  it  will  not  close  its 
eye  and  fold  its  wings  ;  as  if  time  were  not  swift 
enough,  its  swifter  thoughts  outstrip  his  rapid 
flight,  and  onward,  onward  do  they  wing  their 
way  to  the  distant  mountains,  to  the  fleeting 
clouds  of  the  future  ;  and  yet  I  know,  that  ere 
long,  weary,  and  wayworn,  and  disappointed, 
they  shall  return  to  nestle  in  the  bosom  of  the 
past ! 

This  day,  also,  I  have  passed  at  Acqua  Pa- 
ola.  From  the  garden  terrace  I  watched  the 
setting  sun,  as,  wrapt  in  golden  vapor,  he  passed 
to  other  climes.  A  friend  from  my  native  land 
was  with  me  ;  and  as  we  spake  of  home,  a  liquid 


ROME    IX    MIDSUMMER.  327 

star  stood  trembling  like  a  tear  upon  the  closing 
eyelid  of  the  day.  Which  of  us  sketched  these 
lines  with  a  pencil  upon  the  cover  of  Julia's  Co- 
rinna  ? 

Bright  star !  whose  soil,  familiar  raj, 

In  colder  climes  and  gloomier  skies, 
1  °ve  watched  so  oft  when  closing  day 

Had  tinged  the  west  with  crimson  dies ; 
Perhaps  to-night  some  friend  I  lore, 
Beyond  the  deep,  the  distant  sea, 
Will  gaze  upon  thy  path  above, 

And  give  one  lingering  thought  to  me. 


TORQUATI  TASSO  OSSA  Hie  JACENT, —  Here 
lie  the  bones  of  Torquato  Tasso,  —  is  the  sim- 
ple inscription  upon  the  poet's  tomb,  in  the  church 
of  St.  Onofrio.  Many  a  pilgrimage  is  made  to 
this  grave.  Many  a  bard  from  distant  lands 
comes  to  visit  the  spot,  —  and,  as  he  paces  the 
secluded  cloisters  of  the  convent  where  the  poet 
died,  and  where  his  ashes  rest,  muses  on  the 
sad  vicissitudes  of  his  life,  and  breathes  a  prayer 
for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  He  sleeps  midway 
between  his  cradle  at  Sorrento  and  his  dungeon 
at  Ferrara. 

The  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio  stands  on  the 
Janiculum,  overlooking  the  Tiber  and  the  city  of 


328  ROME     IN    MIDSUMMER. 

Rome  ;  and  in  the  distance  rise  the  towers  of 
the  Roman  Capitol,  where,  after  long  years  of 
sickness,  sorrow,  and  imprisonment,  the  laurel 
crown  was  prepared  for  the  great  epic  poet  of 
Italy.  The  chamber  in  which  Tasso  died  is 
still  shown  to  the  curious  traveller  ;  and  the  tree 
in  the  garden,  under  whose  shade  he  loved  to 
sit.  The  feelings  of  the  dying  man,  as  he  re- 
posed in  this  retirement,  are  not  the  vague  conjec- 
tures of  poetic  revery.  He  has  himself  recorded 
them  in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his  friend  An- 
tonio Constantini,  a  few  days  only  before  his  dis- 
solution. These  are  his  melancholy  words  :  — 

"  What  will  my  friend  Antonio  say,  when  he 
hears  the  death  of  Tasso  ?  Ere  long,  I  think, 
the  news  will  reach  him  ;  for  I  feel  that  the  end 
of  my  life  is  near  ;  being  able  to  find  no  remedy 
for  this  wearisome  indisposition  which  is  super- 
added  to  my  customary  infirmities,  and  by  which, 
as  by  a  rapid  torrent,  I  see  myself  swept  away, 
without  a  hand  to  save.  It  is  no  longer  time  to 
speak  of  my  unyielding  destiny,  not  to  say  the  in- 
gratitude of  the  world,  which  has  longed  even  for 
the  victory  of  driving  me  a  beggar  to  my  grave  ; 
while  I  thought  that  the  glory  which,  in  spite  of 
those  who  will  it  not,  this  age  shall  receive  from 


::." 


Pkaj  God  forme;  and  be  assured  that 
as  1  luce  loved  and  bonoied  TOO  n  UK  present 

Be,  so  n  that  other  and  more  real  fife  wffl  I  do 

£••>      »  -»n  ii_i«  m, ,,in_,  *    -,        f-   _«       « 

mm  «o0  an  mat  oeionss  to  ciutuv  mm^neo.  ana 

trae.     Ana  to  the  uiiiue  mutii  1  commend  both 
jooan- 


pie.     The  Princess  Dona  washes  the 

fed  n  Hohr  »%'  cek  j  tm«aj  ereningj  fool  or 


five  an  inosace  of  the  Vkein.   wiihn  a  stone's 

,1 ^  ^ 

UBUH  01  i 

to  gt. 


I  OT  a  brce  pie  of  ihese  Id- 
ters  a  lew  weeks  ago  in  Gomasa's  chapel,  at  the 
of  St.  I«natras-     Ther  were  bring  at  the 


330  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

foot  of  the  altar,  prettily  written  on  smooth  paper, 
and  tied  with  silken  ribands  of  various  colors. 
Leaning  over  the  marble  balustrade,  I  read  the 
following  superscription  upon  one  of  them  :  — 
"  J2W  Jlngelico  Giovane  S.  Luigi  Gonzaga, 
Paradise," — To  the  angelic  youth  St.  Louis 
Gonzaga,  Paradise.  A  soldier,  with  a  musket, 
kept  guard  over  this  treasure  ;  and  I  had  the  au- 
dacity to  ask  him  at  what  hour  the  mail  went  out ; 
for  which  heretical  impertinence  he  cocked  his 
mustache  at  me  with  the  most  savage  look  imag- 
inable, as  much  as  to  say,  "  Get  thee  gone  "  :  — 

"Andate, 
Niente  pigliate, 
E  mai  ritornate." 

The  modern  Romans  are  likewise  strongly  giv- 
en to  amusements  of  every  description.  Panem 
et  circenses,  says  the  Latin  satirist,  when  chiding 
the  degraded  propensities  of  his  countrymen  ;  Pa- 
nem et  circenses,  —  they  are  content  with  bread 
and  the  sports  of  the  circus.  The  same  may 
be  said  at  the  present  day.  Even  in  this  hot 
weather,  when  the  shops  are  shut  at  noon,  and 
the  fat  priests  waddle  about  the  streets  with  fans 
in  their  hands,  the  people  crowd  to  the  Mauso- 
leum of  Augustus,  to  be  choked  with  the  smoke 


KOME    I*    MIDSUMMER. 


nd  see  deformed   an 
into  the  dirt  by  the  masked  harm 
Wbal  a  refined  amusement  for 
of  "pompous  and  horj  Rome!" 


THE  Sirocco  prevails  to-day,  — a  hot  wind 
me  burning  sands  of  Airics,  mat  bathes  its 
in  the  sea,  and  comes  laden  with  fogs  and 
vapors  to  the  shores  of  Itahr.  It  is  oppressive 
and  dispiriting,  and  quite  unmans  one,  like  the 
dog-days  of  the  North.  There  is  a  scrap  of  an 

nid      li*n«Ce-k      •  nnln^-      In  wninrl 

OH  juDgnsn  song  *""|>>ftg  m  my  mma, 

*l^    TW^P*  j-jflj    C*  9  tfk^^rkl  ivnwl  •    IJMMi»li    tort    tf\ 

I  misquote. 

**Wka  the  cool  Smxo  Uom, 


I  should  think  that  stark  English  beer  might 
hare  a  potent  charm  against  the  powers  of  the 
foul  fiend  that  rides  this  steaming,  reeking  wind. 
A  flask  of  Mootefiascone,  or  a  bottle  of  Lacnma 
Christi  does  Tcrjwefl. 


332  ROME     IN    MIDSUMMER. 

BEGGARS  all,  — beggars  all  !  The  Papal  city 
is  full  of  them  ;  and  they  hold  you  by  the  button 
through  the  whole  calendar  of  saints.  You  can- 
not choose  but  hear.  I  met  an  old  woman  yes- 
terday, who  pierced  my  ear  with  this  alluring  pe- 
tition :  — 

"Jlh  signore  !  Qualche  piccolo,  cosa,  per  ca- 
rt/a /  Vi  diro  la  buona  ventura !  C'  e  una  bella 
signorina,  che  vi  ama  molto  !  Per  il  Sacro  Sa- 
cramento !  Per  la  .Madonna  !  " 

Which  being  interpreted,  is,  "Ah,  Sir,  a  trifle, 
for  charity's  sake  !  I  will  tell  your  fortune  for 
you  !  There  is  a  beautiful  young  lady  who  loves 
you  well  !  For  the  Holy  Sacrament,  —  for  the 
Madonna's  sake  !  " 

Who  could  resist  such  an  appeal  ? 

I  made  a  laughable  mistake  this  morning  in 
giving  alms.  A  man  stood  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  street  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  as  I 
passed  he  gave  me  a  piteous  look,  though  he  said 
nothing.  He  had  such  a  wobegone  face,  and 
such  a  threadbare  coat,  that  I  at  once  took  him 
for  one  of  those  mendicants  who  bear  the  title  of 
poveri  vergognosi,  —  bashful  beggars  ;  persons 
whom  pinching  want  compels  to  receive  the 
stranger's  charity,  though  pride  restrains  them 


ROME     IX    MIDSUMMER.  333 

from  asking  h.  Moved  with  compassion,  I  threw 
into  the  hat  the  little  I  had  to  give ;  when,  in- 
stead of  thanking  me  with  a  blessing.,  my  man  of 
the  threadbare  coat  showered  upon  me  the  most 
sonorous  maledictions  of  his  native  tongue,  and, 
emptying  his  greasy  bat  upon  the  pavement,  drew 
it  down  over  his  ears  witli  both 
away  with  all  the  dignity  of  a 
the  best  days  of  the  republic,  —  to  the  infinite 
amusement  of  a  green-grocer,  who  stood  at  his 
shop-door  bursting  wim  laughter.  No  tune  was 
given  me  for  an  apology  ;  bat  I  resolved  to  be  for 
the  future  more  discriminating  in  my  charities, 
and  not  to  take  for  a  beggar  every  poor  gentle- 
man who  chose  to  stand  in  the  shade  with  his  bat 
in  his  hand  on  a  hot  summers  day. 


THERE  is  an  old  fellow  who  hawks  pious  le- 
gends and  the  fives  of  saints  through  die  streets  of 
Rome,  with  a  sharp,  cracked  voice,  that  knows  no 
pause  nor  division  in  the  sentences  it  utters.  I 
just  beard  him  cry  at  a  bream  :  — 

"LaTilmdi  8m*  Gimxppc  ful  JOel  tentor 
di  Dio  *mte  e  m*rmcigli*»  mezzo  fepcco,"  — 
The  Life  of  St.  Joseph  mat  fcithrol  servant  of 
God  holy  and  wonderful  ha'penny  ! 


334  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

This  is  the  way  with  some  people  ;  every 
thing  helter-skelter,  —  heads  and  tails,  —  prices 
current  and  the  lives  of  saints  ! 


IT  has  been  a  rainy  day, — a  day  of  gloom. 
The  church-bells  never  rang  in  my  ears  with  so 
melancholy  a  sound  ;  and  this  afternoon  I  saw  a 
mournful  scene,  which  still  haunts  my  imagination. 
It  was  the  funeral  of  a  monk.  I  was  drawn  to 
the  window  by  the  solemn  chant,  as  the  proces- 
sion came  from  a  neighbouring  street  and  crossed 
the  square.  First  came  a  long  train  of  priests, 
clad  in  black,  and  bearing  in  their  hands  large 
waxen  tapers,  which  flared  in  every  gust  of  wind, 
and  were  now  and  then  extinguished  by  the  rain. 
The  bier  followed,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of 
four  bare-footed  Carmelites  ;  and  upon  it,  ghast- 
ly and  grim,  lay  the  body  of  the  dead  monk,  clad 
in  his  long  gray  kirtle,  with  the  twisted  cord 
about  his  waist.  Not  even  a  shroud  was  thrown 
over  him.  His  head  and  feet  were  bare,  and  his 
hands  were  placed  upon  his  bosom,  palm  to  palm, 
in  the  attitude  of  prayer.  His  face  was  emaci- 
ated, and  of  a  livid  hue  ;  his  eyes  unclosed  ;  and 
at  every  movement  of  the  bier,  his  head  nodded 


ROME    IK    MIDSUMMER.  335 

to  and  fro,  with  an  unearthly  and  hideous  as- 
pect. Behind  walked  the  monastic  brotherhood, 
a  long  and  melancholy  procession,  with  their  cowls 
thrown  back,  and  their  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground  ; 
and  last  of  all  came  a  man  with  a  rough,  un- 
painted  coffin  upon  his  shoulders,  closing  the 
funeral  train. 


of  the  priests,  monks,  monsignori,  and 
cardinals  of  Rome  have  a  bad  reputation,  even 
after  deducting  a  tithe  or  so  from  the  tales  of 
gossip.  To  some  of  them  may  be  applied  the 
rhyming  Latin  distich,  written  for  the  monks  of 
old:  — 

"OMonachi, 
Vestri  stomach! 
Sum  amphora  Bacchi ; 

VoB«tb, 

D-  .-  •-::-:>. 
Turpifisuna  pesto." 

The  graphic  description  which  Thomson  gives 
in  bis  "Castle  of  Indolence"  would  readily  find 
an  impersonation  among  the  Roman  priesthood  :  — 

"Foil  oft  by  holy  feet  oar  ground  was  trod,— 
Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  TOO  mote  espy ;  — 
A  little,  round,  fit,  oily  man  of  God 
Was  one  I  chiefly  marked  among  the  fry ; 


336  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
Which  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
When  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by  ; 
But  when  observed,  would  shrink  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew." 


YONDER  across  the  square  goes  a  J\Iinente  of 
Trastevere ;  a  fellow  who  boasts  the  blood  of  the 
old  Romans  in  his  veins.  He  is  a  plebeian  ex- 
quisite of  the  western  bank  of  the  Tiber,  with  a 
swarthy  face  and  the  step  of  an  emperor.  He 
wears  a  slouched  hat,  and  blue  velvet  jacket  and 
breeches,  and  has  enormous  silver  buckles  in  his 
shoes.  As  he  marches  along,  he  sings  a  ditty  in 
his  own  vulgar  dialect :  — 

"  Uno,  due,  e  tre, 
E  lo  Papa  non  e  Re." 

Now  he  stops  to  talk  with  a  woman  with  a  pan 
of  coals  in  her  hand.  What  violent  gestures  ! 
what  expressive  attitudes  !  Head,  hands,  and 
feet  are  all  in  motion,  —  not  a  muscle  is  still  ! 
It  must  be  some  interesting  subject  that  excites 
him  so  much,  and  gives  such  energy  to  his  ges- 
tures and  his  language.  No  ;  he  only  wants  to 
light  his  pipe  ! 


ROME    I*    MIDSUMMER.  337 

IT  is  now  past  midnight.  The  moon  is  full 
and  bright,  and  the  shadows  lie  so  dark  and 
massive  in  the  street  that  they  seem  a  part  of  the 
walls  that  cast  them.  I  have  just  returned  from 
the  Coliseum,  whose  ruins  are  so  marveDoush/ 
beautiful  by  moonlight.  No  stranger  at  Rome 
omits  this  midnight  visit ;  for  though  there  is 
something  unpleasant  in  having  one's  admiration 
forestalled,  and  being  as  it  were  romantic  afore- 
thought, yet  the  charm  is  so  powerful,  the  scene 
so  surpassingly  beautiful  and  sublime, — the  hour, 
the  silence,  and  the  colossal  ruin  have  such  a 
mastery  over  the  soul,  —  that  you  are  disarmed 
when  most  upon  your  guard,  and  betrayed  into 
an  enthusiasm  which  perhaps  you  bad  silently 
resolved  you  would  not  feel. 

On  my  way  to  the  Coliseum,  I  crossed  the 
Capitoline  hill,  and  descended  into  the  Roman 
Forum  by  the  broad  staircase  that  leads  to  the 
triumphal  arch  of  Septimius  Severus.  Close 
upon  my  right  band  stood  the  three  remaining 
columns  of  the  temple  of  the  Thunderer,  and 
the  beautiful  Ionic  portico  of  the  temple  of 
Concord, — their  base  in  shadow,  and  the  bright 
moonbeam  striking  aslant  upon  the  broken  entab- 
lature above.  Before  me  rose  the  Phocian  Col- 
22 


338  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

umn,  —  an  isolated  shaft,  like  a  thin  vapor  hanging 
in  the  air  scarce  visible  ;  and  far  to  the  left,  the 
ruins  of  the  temple  of  Antonio  and  Faustina, 
and  the  three  colossal  arches  of  the  temple  of 
Peace,  —  dim,  shadowy,  indistinct,  —  seemed  to 
melt  away  and  mingle  with  the  sky.  I  crossed 
the  Forum  to  the  foot  of  the  Palatine,  and,  as- 
cending the  Via  Sacra,  passed  beneath  the  Arch 
of  Titus.  From  this  point,  I  saw  below  me  the 
gigantic  outline  of  the  Coliseum,  like  a  cloud 
resting  upon  the  earth.  As  I  descended  the  hill- 
side, it  grew  more  broad  and  high, — more  definite 
in  its  form,  and  yet  more  grand  in  its  dimensions, 
—  till,  from  the  vale  in  which  it  stands  encom- 
passed by  three  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Rome,  — 
the  Palatine,  the  Ccelian,  and  the  Esquiline,  —  the 
majestic  ruin  in  all  its  solitary  grandeur  "  swelled 
vast  to  heaven." 

A  single  sentinel  was  pacing  to  and  fro  beneath 
the  arched  gateway  which  leads  to  the  interior, 
and  his  measured  footsteps  were  the  only  sound 
that  broke  the  breathless  silence  of  the  night. 
What  a  contrast  with  the  scene  which  that  same 
midnight  hour  presented,  when,  in  Domitian's 
time,  the  eager  populace  began  to  gather  at  the 
gates,  impatient  for  the  morning  sports  !  Nor 


blood?    Where wwe  the dris- 


340  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

long  and  majestic  corridors,  which  in  ancient 
times  ran  entirely  round  the  amphitheatre.  Huge 
columns  of  solid  mason-work,  that  seem  the 
labor  of  Titans,  support  the  flattened  arches 
above  ;  and  though  the  iron  clamps  are  gone, 
which  once  fastened  the  hewn  stones  together, 
yet  the  columns  stand  majestic  and  unbroken, 
amid  the  ruin  around  them,  and  seem  to  defy 
"  the  iron  tooth  of  time."  Through  the  arches 
at  the  right,  I  could  faintly  discern  the  ruins  of 
the  baths  of  Titus  on  the  Esquiline  ;  and  from 
the  left,  through  every  chink  and  cranny  of  the 
wall,  poured  in  the  brilliant  light  of  the  full  moon, 
casting  gigantic  shadows  around  me,  and  diffus- 
ing a  soft,  silvery  twilight  through  the  long  ar- 
cades. At  length  I  came  to  an  open  space, 
where  the  arches  above  had  crumbled  away, 
leaving  the  pavement  an  unroofed  terrace  high 
in  air.  From  this  point,  I  could  see  the  whole 
interior  of  the  amphitheatre  spread  out  beneath 
me,  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light,  with  such  a 
soft  and  indefinite  outline  that  it  seemed  less  an 
earthly  reality  than  a  reflection  in  the  bosom  of  a 
lake.  The  figures  of  several  persons  below 
were  just  perceptible,  mingling  grotesquely  with 
their  fore-shortened  shadows.  The  sound  of 


ROME    IX    MIDSUMMER.  341 

their  voices  reached  me  in  a  whisper  ;  and  the 
cross  that  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  arena  looked 
like  a  dagger  thrust  into  the  sand.  I  did  not 
conjure  up  the  past,  for  the  past  had  already  be- 
come identified  with  the  present.  It  was  before 
me  in  one  of  its  visible  and  most  majestic  forms. 
The  arbitrary  distinctions  of  time,  years,  ages, 
centuries  were  annihilated.  I  was  a  citizen  of 
Rome !  This  was  the  amphitheatre  of  Flavins 
Vespasian  ! 

Mighty  is  the  spirit  of  the  past,  amid  the  ruins 
of  the  Eternal  City  ! 


THE 

VILLAGE   OF  LA   RICCIA. 


Egressum  magnft  me  excepit  Aricia  RomS, 
Hospitio  niodico. 

HORACE. 

I  PASSED  the  month  of  September  at  the  vil- 
lage of  La  Riccia,  which  stands  upon  the  west- 
ern declivity  of  the  Albanian  hills,  looking  towards 
Rome.  Its  situation  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful which  Italy  can  boast.  Like  a  mural  crown, 
it  encircles  the  brow  of  a  romantic  hill  ;  wood- 
lands of  the  most  luxuriant  foliage  whisper  around 
it ;  above  rise  the  rugged  summits  of  the  Abruz- 
zi,  and  beneath  lies  the  level  floor  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,  blotted  with  ruined  tombs,  and  marked 
with  broken  but  magnificent  aqueducts  that  point 
the  way  to  Rome.  The  whole  region  is  classic 
ground.  The  Appian  Way  leads  you  from  the 
gate  of  Rome  to  the  gate  of  La  Riccia.  On 
one  hand  you  have  the  Alban  Lake,  on  the  other 
the  Lake  of  Nemi ;  and  the  sylvan  retreats  around 


THE    VILLAGE    OF   LA    KICCIA.  343 

were  once  the  dwellings  of  Hippolytus  and  the 
nymph  Egeria. 

The  town  itself,  howerer,  is  mean  and  dirty. 
The  only  mhahhahl«»  part  is  near  the  northern 
gate,  where  the  two  streets  of  the  village  meet. 
There,  fece  to  face^  upon  a  square  terrace,  paved 
with  large,  flat  stones,  stand  the  Chigi  palace 
and  the  village  church  with  a  dome  and  portico. 
There,  too,  stands  the  village  im,  with  its  beds 
of  cool,  elastic  maize-husks,  its  little  dormito- 
ries, six  feet  square,  and  its  spacious  saloon,  upon 
whose  walls  the  melancholy  story  of  Hippolytus 
a  told  in  gorgeous  frescoes.  And  there,  too, 
at  the  union  of  the  streets,  just  peeping  through 
die  gateway,  rises  die  wedge-shaped  Casa  An- 
tonini,  within  whose  dusty  chambers  I  passed 
the  month  of  my  cillcggiatura,  in  company  with 
two  much-esteemed  friends  from  the  Old  Do- 
minion, —  a  fair  daughter  of  that  generous  clime, 
and  her  husband,  an  artist,  an  enthusiast,  and  a 
man  of  "  infinite  jest." 

My  daily  occupations  in  this  delightful  spot 
were  such  as  an  idle  man  usually  whiles  away 
his  time  withal  in  such  a  rural  residence.  I  read 
Italian  poetry,  —  strolled  in  the  Chigi  park, — 
rambled  about  the  wooded  environs  of  the  vil- 


344  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

lage,  —  took  an  airing  on  a  jackass,  —  threw 
stones  Into  the  Alban  Lake,  —  and,  being  seized 
at  intervals  with  the  artist-mania,  that  came  upon 
me  like  an  intermittent  fever,  sketched  —  or 
thought  I  did  —  the  trunk  of  a  hollow  tree,  or 
the  spire  of  a  distant  church,  or  a  fountain  in 
the  shade. 

At  such  seasons,  the  mind  is  "  tickled  with  a 
straw,"  and  magnifies  each  trivial  circumstance 
into  an  event  of  some  importance.  I  recollect 
one  morning,  as  I  sat  at  breakfast  in  the  village 
coffee-house,  a  large  and  beautiful  spaniel  came 
into  the  room,  and  placing  his  head  upon  my 
knee  looked  up  into  my  face  with  a  most  piteous 
look,  poor  dog  !  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had 
not  breakfasted.  I  gave  him  a  morsel  of  bread, 
which  he  swallowed  without  so  much  as  moving 
his  long  silken  ears  ;  and  keeping  his  soft,  beau- 
tiful eyes  still  fixed  upon  mine,  he  thumped  upon 
the  floor  with  his  bushy  tail,  as  if  knocking  for 
the  waiter.  He  was  a  very  beautiful  animal, 
and  so  gentle  and  affectionate  in  his  manner,  that 
I  asked  the  waiter  who  his  owner  was. 

"  He  has  none  now,"  said  the  boy. 

"What!"  said  I,  "so  fine  a  dog  without  a 
master  ?  " 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA.  345 

'*  Ah,  Sir,  he  used  to  belong  to  Gasparoni,  the 
famous  robber  of  the  Abruzzi  mountains,  who 
murdered  so  many  people,  and  was  caught  at 
last  and  sent  to  the  galleys  for  life.  There  's  his 
portrait  on  the  wall." 

It  hung  directly  in  front  of  me  ;  a  coarse  print, 
representing  the  dark,  stem  countenance  of  that 
sinful  man,  a  face  that  wore  an  expression  of 
savage  ferocity  and  coarse  sensuality.  I  had 
heard  his  story  told  in  the  village  ;  the  accus- 
tomed tale  of  outrage,  violence,  and  murder. 
And  is  it  possible,  thought  I,  that  this  man  of 
blood  could  have  chosen  so  kind  and  gentle  a 
companion  ?  What  a  rebuke  must  he  have  met 
in  those  large,  meek  eyes,  when  he  patted  his 
favorite  on  the  head,  and  dappled  his  long  ears 
with  blood  !  Heaven  seems  in  mercy  to  have 
ordained  that  none  —  no,  not  even  the  most  de- 
praved —  should  be  left  entirely  to  bis  evil  nature, 
without  one  patient  monitor, — a  wife, — a  daugh- 
ter,—  a  fawning,  meek-eyed  dog,  whose  silent, 
supplicating  look  may  rebuke  the  man  of  sin  !  If 
this  mute,  playful  creature,  that  licks  the  stran- 
ger's hand,  were  gifted  widi  the  power  of  artic- 
ulate speech,  how  many  a  tale  of  midnight  storm, 
and  mountain-pass,  and  lonely  glen,  would  —  but 
these  reflections  are  commonplace  ! 


346  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

On  another  occasion,  I  saw  an  overladen  ass 
fall  on  the  steep  and  slippery  pavement  of  the 
street.  He  made  violent  but  useless  efforts  to 
get  upon  his  feet  again  ;  and  his  brutal  driver — 
more  brutal  than  the  suffering  beast  of  burden  — 
beat  him  unmercifully  with  his  heavy  whip.  Bar- 
barian !  is  it  not  enough  that  you  have  laid  upon 
your  uncomplaining  servant  a  burden  greater  than 
he  can  bear  ?  Must  you  scourge  this  unre- 
sisting slave,  because  his  strength  has  failed  him 
in  your  hard  service  ?  Does  not  that  imploring 
look  disarm  you?  Does  not — and  here  was 
another  theme  for  commonplace  reflection  ! 

Again.  A  little  band  of  pilgrims,  clad  in  white, 
with  staves,  and  scallop-shells,  and  sandal  shoon, 
have  just  passed  through  the  village  gate,  wend- 
ing their  toilsome  way  to  the  holy  shrine  of  Lo- 
retto.  They  wind  along  the  brow  of  the  hill 
with  slow  and  solemn  pace, — just  as  they  ought 
to  do,  to  agree  with  my  notion  of  a  pilgrimage, 
drawn  from  novels.  And  now  they  disappear 
behind  the  hill ;  and  hark  !  they  are  singing  a 
mournful  hymn,  like  Christian  and  Hopeful  on 
their  way  to  the  Delectable  Mountains.  How 
strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  I  should  ever  be- 
hold a  scene  like  this  !  a  pilgrimage  to  Loretto ! 


THE    T1LUCE    OF   LA    EICCIA. 


Bat  my  chief  deEdft  was  in 


ofLaRiccia-     One  of 
teepdeefritToftbehiB, 


Ho- 


1k*  wafcosof  a  vd,"a 

roond,  as  deeps  die  snake,"    A  thkd,  and  the 

along  the  crest  of  the  ktst  and  Invest  ridge  of 
the  Alan  Lake-     In  parts  it  hides  osetf  in 


Then  k  m 
alooe  ihe  bmn  of  the  deep,  owal  basai  of 
lake,   to  the  riBage  of   Castd    Gandobo, 
Aenee  uurauid  to  Manno,  Grotta-Fenata, 

That  part  of  the  road 


348  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

thick  embowering  trees,  whose  dense  and  luxuri- 
ant foliage  completely  shuts  out  the  noonday  sun, 
forming 

"  A  greensward  wagon-way,  that,  like 
Cathedral  aisle,  completely  roofed  with  branches, 
Runs  through  the  gloomy  wood  from  top  to  bottom, 
And  has  at  either  end  a  Gothic  door 
Wide  open." 

This  long  sylvan  arcade  is  called  the  Galleria- 
di-sopra,  to  distinguish  it  from  the  Galleria-di- 
sotto,  a  similar,  though  less  beautiful  avenue,  lead- 
ing from  Castel  Gandolfo  to  Albano,  under  the 
brow  of  the  hill.  In  this  upper  gallery,  and  al- 
most hidden  amid  its  old  and  leafy  trees,  stands 
a  Capuchin  convent,  with  a  little  esplanade  in 
front,  from  which  the  eye  enjoys  a  beautiful  view 
of  the  lake,  and  the  swelling  hills  beyond.  It 
is  a  lovely  spot,  —  so  lonely,  cool,  and  still  ;  and 
was  my  favorite  and  most  frequented  haunt. 

Another  pathway  conducts  you  round  the  south- 
ern shore  of  the  Alban  Lake,  and,  after  passing 
the  site  of  the  ancient  Alba  Longa,  and  the  con- 
vent of  Palazzuolo,  turns  off  to  the  right  through 
a  luxuriant  forest,  and  climbs  the  rugged  preci- 
pice of  Rocca  di  Papa.  Behind  this  village 
swells  the  rounded  peak  of  Monte  Cavo,  the 


THE    TILLAGE    OP    LA    KICCIA.  349 

higfeest  pbnacle  of  the  Albanian  Hills,  rising  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Upon 
its  summit  once  stood  a  temple  of  Jupiter,  and 
the  Triumphal  Way,  by  which  the  Roman  con- 
querors ascended  once  a  rear  in  solemn  proces- 
sion to  offer  sacrifices,  still  leads  yea  up  the  side 
of  the  hill.  But  a  convent  has  been  built  upon 
the  ruins  of  the  ancient  temple,  and  the  disci- 
ples of  Loyola  are  now  the  only  conquerors  that 
tread  the  pavement  of  the  Triumphal  Way. 

The  view  from  the  windows  of  the  convent  is 
vast  and  magnificent.  Directly  beneath  you,  the 
sight  plunges  headlong  into  a  gun*  of  dark-green 
foliage, — the  Alban  Lake  seems  so  near,  that  you 
can  almost  drop  a  pebble  into  it, — and  Nemi, 
unbosomed  in  a  green  and  cup-like  valley,  lies 
like  a  dew-drop  in  die  hollow  of  a  leaf.  AH 
around  you,  upon  every  swell  of  the  landscape, 
the  white  walls  of  rural  towns  and  villages  peep 
from  their  leafy  coverts.  —  Gemano,  La  Riccia, 
Caste!  Gandolfo,and  Albano;and  beyond  spreads 
the  flat  and  desolate  Campagna,  with  Rome  in 
its  centre,  and  seamed  by  the  s&Ver  thread  of 
the  Tiber,  that  at  Ostia,  "with  a  pleasant  stream, 
whaling  in  rapid  eddies,  and  yellow  with  much 
sand,  rashes  forward  into  the  sea."  The  scene 


350  THE    VILLAGE    OP    LA    RICCIA. 

of  half  the  JEneid  is  spread  beneath  you  like  a 
map ;  and  it  would  need  volumes  to  describe  each 
point  that  arrests  the  eye  in  this  magnificent  pan- 
orama. 

As  I  stood  leaning  over  the  balcony  of  the 
convent,  giving  myself  up  to  those  reflections 
which  the  scene  inspired,  one  of  the  brotherhood 
came  from  a  neighbouring  cell,  and  entered  into 
conversation  with  me.  He  was  an  old  man,  with 
a  hoary  head  and  a  trembling  hand  ;  yet  his  voice 
was  musical  and  soft,  and  his  eye  still  beamed 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth. 

"  How  wonderful,"  said  he,  "  is  the  scene  be- 
fore us  !  I  have  been  an  inmate  of  these  walls 
for  thirty  years,  and  yet  this  prospect  is  as  beau- 
tiful to  my  eye  as  when  I  gazed  upon  it  for  the 
first  time.  Not  a  day  passes  that  I  do  not  come 
to  this  window  to  behold  and  to  admire.  My 
heart  is  still  alive  to  the  beauties  of  the  scene, 
and  to  all  the  classic  associations  it  inspires." 

"  You  have  never,  then,  been  whipped  by  an 
angel  for  reading  Cicero  and  Plautus,  as  St. 
Jerome  was  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  monk,  with  a  smile.  "  From 
my  youth  up  I  have  been  a  disciple  of  Chrysos- 
tom,  who  often  slept  with  the  comedies  of  Aris- 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA.  351 

tophanes  beneath  his  pillow  ;  and  yet  I  confess 
that  the  classic  associations  of  Roman  history  and 
fable  are  not  the  most  thrilling  which  this  scene 
awakens  in  my  mind.  Yonder  is  the  bridge  from 
which  Constantme  beheld  the  miraculous  cross 
of  fire  in  the  sky  ;  and  I  can  never  forget  that 
this  convent  is  built  upon  the  ruins  of  a  pagan 
temple.  The  town  of  Ostia,  which  lies  before 
us  on  the  seashore,  is  renowned  as  the  spot 
where  the  Trojan  fugitive  first  landed  on  the 
coast  of  Italy.  But  other  associations  than  this 
have  made  the  spot  holy  in  my  sight.  Marcus 
Minutius  Felix,  a  Roman  lawyer,  who  flourished 
in  the  third  century,  a  convert  to  our  blessed 
faith,  and  one  of  the  purest  writers  of  the  Latin 
church,  here  places  the  scene  of  his  "  Octavius." 
This  work  has  probably  never  fallen  into  your 
bands  ;  for  you  are  too  young  to  have  pushed 
your  studies  into  the  dusty  tomes  of  the  early 
Christian  fathers." 

I  replied  that  I  had  never  so  much  as  heard 
the  book  mentioned  before  ;  and  the  monk  con- 
tinued :  — 

"It  is  a  dialogue  upon  the  vanity  of  pagan 
idolatry  and  the  truth  of  tbe  Christian  religion, 
between  Caecilius,  a  heathen,  and  Octavius,  a 


352  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

Christian.  The  style  is  rich,  flowing,  and  poeti- 
cal ;  and  if  the  author  handles  his  weapons  with 
less  power  than  a  Tertullian,  yet  he  exhibits 
equal  adroitness  and  more  grace.  He  has  rather 
the  studied  elegance  of  the  Roman  lawyer,  than 
the  bold  spirit  of  a  Christian  martyr.  But  the 
volume  is  a  treasure  to  me  in  my  solitary  hours, 
and  I  love  to  sit  here  upon  the  balcony,  and  con 
its  poetic  language  and  sweet  imagery.  You 
shall  see  the  volume  ;  I  carry  it  in  my  bosom." 

With  these  words,  the  monk  drew  from  the 
folds  of  his  gown  a  small  volume,  bound  in  parch- 
ment, and  clasped  with  silver  ;  and,  turning  over 
its  well  worn  leaves,  continued  :  — 

"  In  the  introduction,  the  author  describes  him- 
self as  walking  upon  the  seashore  at  Ostia,  in 
company  with  his  friends  Octavius  and  Csecilius. 
Observe  in  what  beautiful  language  he  describos 
the  scene." 

Here  he  read  to  me  the  following  passage, 
which  I  transcribe,  not  from  memory,  but  from 
the  book  itself. 

"  It  was  vacation-time,  and  that  gave  me  aloose 
from  my  business  at  the  bar  ;  for  it  was  the  sea- 
son after  the  summer's  heat,  when  autumn  prom- 
ised fair,  and  put  on  the  face  of  temperate.  We 


THE    T  ULLAGE    OP   LA   BICC1A. 


-*3 


day,  to 

figure,  and  anointed  with  oil,  and  crowned;  bat 

bat  be  sensible  that  your  pennhm^  so  foul  an 
error  m  your  friend  redounds  no  less  to  jour  dis- 
grace iban  his.'  Thb  dbeoorae  of  his  held  as 

,| 1      W-lf    *lw»     .T«-  1     m  «.     Iwnv  «ji.    C—  il 

uxroagn  nan  tnecatf  ,  and  now  we  began  to  nod 

ore.     There 

as  the  sea  always  expresses  some  rou^ess  in  hb 

L_ 

ne 


Ad  not  rofl  m  foam  and  aapj 
shore,  yet  were  we  in 


to  the 
we  walked 


354  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

upon  the  edges  of  the  water,  to  see  the  crisping, 
frizzly  waves  glide  in  snaky  folds,  one  while  play- 
ing  against  our  feet,  and  then  again  retiring  and 
lost  in  the  devouring  ocean.  Softly  then,  and 
calmly  as  the  sea  about  us,  we  travelled  on,  and 
kept  upon  the  brim  of  the  gently  declining  shore, 
beguiling  the  way  with  our  stories." 

Here  the  sound  of  the  convent-bell  interrupted 
the  reading  of  the  monk,  and,  closing  the  vol- 
ume, he  replaced  it  in  his  bosom,  and  bade  me 
farewell,  with  a  parting  injunction  to  read  the 
"  Octavius"  of  Minutius  Felix  as  soon  as  I  should 
return  to  Rome. 

During  the  summer  months,  La  Riccia  is  a 
favorite  resort  of  foreign  artists  who  are  pursuing 
their  studies  in  the  churches  and  galleries  of 
Rome.  Tired  of  copying  the  works  of  art,  they 
go  forth  to  copy  the  works  of  nature  ;  and  you 
will  find  them  perched  on  their  camp-stools  at 
every  picturesque  point  of  view,  with  white  um- 
brellas to  shield  them  from  the  sun,  and  paint- 
boxes upon  their  knees,  sketching  with  busy 
hands  the  smiling  features  of  the  landscape.  The 
peasantry,  too,  are  fine  models  for  their  study. 
The  women  of  Genzano  are  noted  for  their  beau- 
ty, and  almost  every  village  in  the  neighbourhood 
has  something  peculiar  in  its  costume. 


THE    TILLAGE    OP    LA    RICCIA.  355 

The  sultry  day  was  closing,  and  I  had  reached, 
in  my  accustomed  evening's  walk,  the  woodland 
gallery  that  looks  down  upon  the  Alban  Lake. 
The  setting  son  seemed  to  melt  away  in  the  sky, 
dissolving  into  a  golden  rain,  that  bathed  the 
whole  Campagna  with  unearthly  splendor  ;  while 
Rome  in  the  distance,  half-hidden,  half-revealed. 
lay  floating  like  a  mote  in  the  broad  and  misty 
sunbeam.  The  woodland  walk  before  me  seemed 
roofed  with  gold  and  emerald  ;  and  at  intervals 
across  its  leafy  arches  shot  the  level  rays  of  the 
son,  kindling,  as  they  passed,  like  the  burning 
shaft  of  Acestes.  Beneath  me  the  lake  slept 
quietly.  A  blue,  smoky  vapor  floated  around  hs 
overhanging  cliffs  ;  the  tapering  cone  of  Monte 
Cavo  hung  reflected  in  the  water  ;  a  little  boat 
skimmed  along  hs  glassy  surface,  and  I  could 
even  hear  the  sound  of  the  laboring  oar,  so 
motionless  and  silent  was  the  air  around  me. 

I  soon  reached  the  convent  of  Castel  Gandol- 
fo.  Upon  one  of  the  stone  benches  of  the  es- 
planade sat  a  monk  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  He 
saluted  me,  as  I  approached,  and  some  trivial  re- 
marks upon  the  scene  before  us  led  us  into  con- 
versation. I  observed  by  bis  accent  that  be  was 
not  a  native  of  Italy,  though  he  spoke  Italian 


356  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICC1A. 

with  great  fluency.  In  this  opinion  I  was  con- 
firmed by  his  saying  that  he  should  soon  bid 
farewell  to  Italy  and  return  to  his  native  lakes 
and  mountains  in  the  North  of  Ireland.  I  then 
said  to  him  in  English,  — 

"  How  strange,  that  an  Irishman  and  an  Anglo- 
American  should  be  conversing  together  in  Italian 
upon  the  shores  of  Lake  Albano  !  " 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  ;  "  though 
stranger  things  have  happened.  But  I  owe  the 
pleasure  of  this  meeting  to  a  circumstance  which 
changes  that  pleasure  into  pain.  I  have  been  de- 
tained here  many  weeks  beyond  the  time  I  had 
fixed  for  my  departure  by  the  sickness  of  a 
friend,  who  lies  at  the  point  of  death  within  the 
walls  of  this  convent." 

"  Is  he,  too,  a  Capuchin  friar  like  yourself  ?  " 
"  He  is.  We  came  together  from  our  native 
land,  some  six  years  ago,  to  study  at  the  Jesuit 
College  in  Rome.  This  summer  we  were  to 
have  returned  home  again  ;  but  1  shall  now  make 
the  journey  alone." 

"  Is  there,  then,  no  hope  of  his  recovery  ? " 
"  None  whatever,"  answered  the  monk,  shak- 
ing his  head.     "  He  has  been  brought  to   this 
convent  from  Rome,  for  the  benefit  of  a  purer 


THE    TILLAGE    OP    LA    BICCIA.  357 

air  ;  bat  it  is  only  to  die.  and  be  boned  near  the 
borders  of  this  beautiful  lake.  He  is  a  victim 
of  consumption.  But  come  with  me  to  bis  cefl. 
He  win  feel  it  a  kindness  to  bare  you  visit  him. 
Such  a  mark  of  sympathy  in  a  stranger  wfll  be 
trsteful  to  him  in  this  foreign  land,  where  friends 
are  so  few." 

We  entered  the  chapel  together,  and,  ascend- 
ing a  flight  of  steps  beside  the  altar,  passed  into 
the  cloisters  of  die  convent.  Another  flight  of 
steps  led  us  to  the  dormitories  above,  in  one 
of  which  the  skk  man  lay.  Here  my  guide  left 
me  for  a  moment,  and  softly  entered  a  neighbour- 
ing cefl.  He  soon  returned  and  beckoned  me 
to  come  in.  The  room  was  dark  and  hot ;  for 
the  window-shutter  had  been  closed  to  keep  out 
the  rays  of  the  son,  that  in  the  after  part  of  die 
day  fell  unobstructed  upon  the  western  waD  of 
the  convent.  In  one  corner  of  the  fittle  room, 
upon  a  paDet  of  straw,  lay  the  sick  man,  with 
his  fece  towards  the  waD.  As  I  entered,  he 
raised  himself  upon  his  elbow,  and,  stretching  out 
bis  hand  to  me,  said,  in  a  faint  voice,  — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you.     It  is  kind  in  you  to 


Then  sneaking  to  bis  friend,  he  begged 


358  THE    VILLAGE    OE    LA    RICCIA. 

to  open  the  window-shutter  and  let  in  the  light 
and  air  ;  and  as  the  bright  sunbeam  through  the 
wreathing  vapors  of  evening  played  upon  the 
wall  and  ceiling,  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  — 

"  How  beautiful  is  an  Italian  sunset  !  Its 
splendor  is  all  around  us,  as  if  we  stood  in  the 
horizon  itself  and  could  touch  the  sky.  And  yet, 
to  a  sick  man's  feeble  and  distempered  sight, 
it  has  a  wan  and  sickly  hue.  He  turns  away 
with  an  aching  heart  from  the  splendor  he  cannot 
enjoy.  The  cool  air  seems  the  only  friendly 
thing  that  is  left  for  him." 

As  he  spake,  a  deeper  shade  of  sadness  stole 
over  his  pale  countenance,  sallow  and  attenuated 
by  long  sickness.  But  it  soon  passed  off;  and 
as  the  conversation  changed  to  other  topics,  he 
grew  cheerful  again.  He  spoke  of  his  return 
to  his  native  land  with  childish  delight.  This 
hope  had  not  deserted  him.  It  seemed  never 
to  have  entered  his  mind  that  even  this  consola- 
tion would  be  denied  him,  —  that  death  would 
thwart  even  these  fond  anticipations. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  well  enough,"  said  he,  "to 
undertake  the  journey  ;  and,  O,  with  what  delight 
shall  I  turn  my  back  upon  the  A  pennines  !  We 
shall  cross  the  Alps  into  Switzerland,  then  go 


THE    TILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA.  359 

down  the  Rhine  to  England,  and  soon,  soon  we 
shall  see  the  shores  of  die  Emerald  Isle,  and 
once  more  embrace  father,  mother,  sisters  !  By 
my  profession,  I  hare  renounced  the  world, 
bat  not  those  holy  emotions  of  love  which  are 
one  of  the  highest  attributes  of  the  soul,  and 
which,  though  sown  in  corruption  here,  shall 
hereafter  be  raised  in  incorruption.  No  ;  even 
be  that  died  for  as  upon  the  cross,  in  the  last 
hour,  in  the  unutterable  agony  of  death,  was 
mindful  of  his  mother;  as  if  to  teach  us  that 
this  holy  love  should  be  our  last  worldly  thought, 
the  last  point  of  earth  from  which  the  soul  should 
take  its  flight  for  heaven." 

He  ceased  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  fastened 
upon  the  sky  with  a  fixed  and  steady  gaze,  though 
all  unconsciously,  for  his  thoughts  were  far  away 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  distant  home.  As  I  left 
bis  cell,  be  seemed  sinking  to  sleep,  and  hardly 
noticed  my  departure.  The  gloom  of  twilight 
had  already  filled  the  cloisters  ;  the  monks  were 
chanting  their  evening  hymn  in  the  chapel;  and 
one  unbroken  shadow  spread  through  the  long 
cathedral  aisle  of  forest-trees  which  led  me  home- 
ward. There,  in  the  silence  of  the  hour,  and 
amid  the  almost  sepulchral  doom  of  the  wood- 


360  THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA. 

land  scene,  I  tried  to  impress  upon  my  careless 
heart  the  serious  and  affecting  lesson  I  had 
learned. 

I  saw  the  sick  monk  no  more  ;  but  a  day  or 
two  afterward  I  heard  in  the  village  that  he  had 
departed,  —  not  for  an  earthly,  but  for  a  heavenly 
home. 


NOTE-BOOK. 


NOT  E-B  0  0  K 


OK.  man  imomf  the  old,  gig-be  hilfe. 


Tfcey  wiag  • j  fiMbtep*  o.  ; 
Tkdr  kdM  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  die  pine, 


THE  glorious  autumn  closed.  From  the  Abruz- 
a  Momtains  came  the  Zampognari,  playin?  their 
nisric  bagpipes  beneath  the  images  of  the  Vir- 
gin in  the  streets  of  Rome,  and  bailing  with  rode 
minstrelsy  the  approach  of  merrr  Christmas. 
The  shops  were  fiiQ  of  dolls  and  playthings 
for  the  Bilana,  who  enacts  in  Italy  die  same 
merry  interlude  for  children  that  S  antic  la  us  does 
in  the  North;  and  travellers  from  colder  climes 
began  to  fly  southward,  Eke  son-seeking  swallows. 

I  left  Rome  for  Venice,  crossing  die  Apen- 
nines by  the  wild  gorge  of  die  Strettura,  in  a 
ram.  At  Fano  we  struck  into  die 


364  NOTE-BOOK. 

sands  of  the  Adriatic,  and  followed  the  seashore 
northward  to  Rimini,  where  in  the  market-place 
stands  a  pedestal  of  stone,  from  which,  as  an 
officious  cicerone  informed  me,  "  Julius  Caesar 
preached  to  his  army,  before  crossing  the  Ru- 
bicon." Other  principal  points  in  my  journey 
were  Bologna,  with  its  Campo  Santo,  its  gloomy 
arcades,  and  its  sausages  ;  Ferrara,  with  its  du- 
cal palace  and  the  dungeon  of  Tasso  ;  Padua 
the  Learned,  with  its  sombre  and  scholastic  air, 
and  its  inhabitants  "  apt  for  pike  or  pen." 


I  FIRST  saw  Venice  by  moonlight,  as  we 
skimmed  by  the  island  of  St.  George  in  a  feluc- 
ca, and  entered  the  Grand  Canal.  A  thousand 
lamps  glittered  from  the  square  of  St.  Mark, 
and  along  the  water's  edge.  Above  rose  the 
cloudy  shapes  of  spires,  domes,  and  palaces, 
emerging  from  the  sea  ;  and  occasionally  the 
twinkling  lamp  of  a  gondola  darted  across  the 
water  like  a  shooting  star,  and  suddenly  disap- 
peared, as  if  quenched  in  the  wave.  There 
was  something  so  unearthly  in  the  scene,  —  so 
visionary  and  fairy-like,  —  that  I  almost  expected 
to  see  the  city  float  away  like  a  cloud,  and  dis- 
solve into  thin  air. 


NOTE-BOOK.  365 

Howell,  in  his  "  Signorie  of  Venice,"  says, 
c*  It  is  the  water,  wherein  she  lies  like  a  swan's 
nest,  that  doth  both  fence  and  feed  her."  Again  : 
"  She  swims  in  wealth  and  wantonness,  as  well 
as  she  doth  in  the  waters  ;  she  melts  in  softness 
and  sensuality,  as  much  as  any  other  whatso- 
ever." And  still  farther:  "Her  streets  are  so 
neat  and  evenly  paved,  that  in  the  dead  of  win- 
ter one  may  walk  up  and  down  in  a  pah*  of  satin 
pan  tables  and  crimson  silk  stockings,  and  not  be 
dirtied."  And  the  old  Italian  proverb  says,  — 


Chi  noo  ti  rede  non  ti  pregia  ; 
Mk  chi  t'  ha  troppo  reduto 
Ti  dispre«ia  !" 

Venice,  Venice,  he  that  doth  not  see  thee  doth 
not  prize  thee  ;  but  he  that  hath  too  much  seen 
thee  doth  despise  thee  ! 

Should  you  ever  want  a  gondolier  at  Venice 
to  sing  you  a  passage  from  Tasso  by  moonlight, 
inquire  for  Toni  Toscan.  He  has  a  voice  like  a 
raven.  I  sketched  his  portrait  in  my  note-book  ; 
and  he  wrote  beneath  it  this  inscription  :  — 

"  Poeta  Natural  che  Venizian, 
Ch'  el  so  norne  xe  an  tal  Toni  Toscan." 


366  NOTE-BOOK. 

THE  road  from  V7enice  to  Trieste  traverses  a 
vast  tract  of  level  land,  with  the  Friulian  Moun- 
tains on  the  left,  and  the  Adriatic  on  the  right. 
You  pass  through  long  avenues  of  trees,  and  the 
road  stretches  in  unbroken  perspective  before  and 
behind.  Trieste  is  a  busy,  commercial  city, 
with  wide  streets  intersecting  each  other  at  right 
angles.  It  is  a  mart  for  ah1  nations.  Greeks, 
Turks,  Italians,  Germans,  French,  and  English 
meet  you  at  every  corner  and  in  every  coffee- 
house ;  and  the  ever-changing  variety  of  national 
countenance  and  costume  affords  an  amusing  and 
instructive  study  for  a  traveller. 


TRIESTE  to  Vienna.  Daybreak  among  the 
Carnic  Alps.  Above  and  around  me  huge  snow- 
covered  pinnacles,  shapeless  masses  in  the  pale 
starlight,  —  till  touched  by  the  morning  sunbeam, 
as  by  Ithuriel's  spear,  they  assumed  their  nat- 
ural forms  and  dimensions.  A  long,  winding 
valley  beneath,  sheeted  with  spotless  snow.  At 
my  side  a  yawning  and  rent  chasm  ;  —  a  moun- 
tain brook,  —  seen  now  and  then  through  the 
chinks  of  its  icy  bridge,  —  black  and  treacherous, 
—  and  tinkling  along  its  frozen  channel  with  a 
sound  like  a  distant  clanking  of  chains. 


NOTE-BOOK.  367 

Magnificent  highland  scenery  between  Gratz 
and  Vienna  in  the  Steiennark.  The  wild  moun- 
tain-pass from  Meerzuschkg  to  Schottwien.  A 
castle  built  like  an  eagle's  nest  upon  the  top  of  a 
perpendicular  crag.  A  little  hamlet  at  the  base 
of  the  mountain.  A  covered  wagon,  drawn  by 
twenty-one  horses,  slowly  toiling  up  the  slippery, 
zigzag  road.  A  snow-storm.  Reached  Vienna 
at  midnight. 


Os  the  southern  bank  of  the  Danube,  about 
sixteen  miles  above  Vienna,  stands  the  ancient 
castle  of  Greifenstein,  where  —  if  the  tale  be 
true,  though  many  doubt  and  some  deny  it  — 
Richard  the  Lion-heart,  of  England,  was  impris- 
oned, when  returning  from  the  third  crusade. 
It  is  built  upon  the  summit  of  a  steep  and  rocky 
hill,  that  rises  just  far  enough  from  the  river's 
brink  to  leave  a  foothold  for  the  highway.  At 
the  base  of  the  hill  stands  the  village  of  Greifen- 
stein, from  which  a  winding  pathway  leads  you 
to  the  old  castle.  You  pass  through  an  arched 
gate  into  a  narrow  court-yard,  and  thence  onward 
to  a  large,  square  tower.  Near  the  doorway, 
and  deeply  cut  into  the  solid  rock,  upon  which 


368  NOTE-BOOK. 

the  castle  stands,  is  the  form  of  a  human  hand, 
so  perfect  that  your  own  lies  in  it  as  in  a  mould. 
And  hence  the  name  of  Greifenstein.  In  the 
square  tower  is  Richard's  prison,  completely 
isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  castle.  A  wooden 
staircase  leads  you  up  on  the  outside  to  a  light 
balcony,  running  entirely  round  the  tower,  not 
far  below  its  turrets.  From  this  balcony  you 
enter  the  prison,  —  a  small,  square  chamber, 
lighted  by  two  Gothic  windows.  The  walls  of 
the  tower  are  some  five  feet  thick  ;  and  in  the 
pavement  is  a  trapdoor,  opening  into  a  dismal 
vault,  —  a  vast  dungeon,  which  occupies  all  the 
lower  part  of  the  tower,  quite  down  to  its  rocky 
foundations,  and  which  formerly  had  no  entrance 
but  the  trapdoor  above.  In  one  corner  of  the 
chamber  stands  a  large  cage  of  oaken  timber, 
in  which  the  royal  prisoner  is  said  to  have  been 
shut  up  ;  —  the  grossest  lie  that  ever  cheated  the 
gaping  curiosity  of  a  traveller. 

The  balcony  commands  some  fine  and  pic- 
turesque views.  Beneath  you  winds  the  lordly 
Danube,  spreading  its  dark  waters  over  a  wide 
tract  of  meadow- land,  and  forming  numerous  little 
islands  ;  and  all  around,  the  landscape  is  bounded 
by  forest-covered  hills,  topped  by  the  mouldering 


5OTE-BOOK.  369 

turrets  of  a  feudal  castle  or  the  tapering  spire 
of  a  Tillage  church.  The  spot  is  weft  worth 
fishing,  though  German  antiquaries  say  that  Rich- 
ard was  not  imprisoned  there  ;  this  story  being 
at  best  a  bold  conjecture  of  what  is 
though  not  probable. 


FROM  Vienna  I  passed  northward,  visiting 
Prague,  Dresden,  and  Jjeipsic,  and  then  folding 
my  wings  for  a  season  in  the  scholastic  shades 
of  Gottingen.  Thence  I  passed  through  Cas- 
sel  to  Frankfort  on  the  Maine  ;  and  thence  to 
Mayence,  where  I  took  the  steamboat  down  the 
Rhine.  These  several  journeys  I  shall  not  de- 
scribe,  for  as  many  sereral  reasons.  First,  — 
hut  no  matter,  —  I  prefer  thus  to  stride  across 
the  earth  like  the  Satnrnian  m  3licroroegas7  mak- 
ing but  one  step  from  the  Adriatic  to  the  German 
Ocean.  I  leave  untold  the  wonders  of  the  won- 
drous Rhine,  a  fascinating  theme.  Not  even  the 
beauties  of  the  Vautsburg  and  the  Bingenloch 
shall  detain  me.  I  hasten,  Eke  die  blue  waters 
of  that  romantic  river,  to  lose  myself  in  die  sands 

cf  Holland. 

- 


PILGRIM'S   SALUTATION. 


Ye  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell. 

CHILDE  HAROLD. 


THESE,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentlemen, 
are  some  of  the  scenes  and  musings  of  my  pil- 
grimage, when  I  journeyed  away  from  my  kith 
and  kin  into  the  land  of  Outre-Mer.  And  yet 
amid  these  scenes  and  musings,  —  amid  all  the 
novelties  of  the  Old  World,  and  the  quick  suc- 
cession of  images  that  were  continually  calling 
my  thoughts  away,  there  were  always  fond  re- 
grets and  longings  after  the  land  of  my  birth 
lurking  in  the  secret  corners  of  my  heart.  When 
I  stood  by  the  seashore,  and  listened  to  the 
melancholy  and  familiar  roar  of  its  waves,  it 
seemed  but  a  step  from  the  threshold  of  a  for- 
eign land  to  the  fireside  of  home  ;  and  when  I 


THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION.         371 


the  oat-boond  sail,  fining  over  the  wa- 
ter's edge,  and  losing  dsetf  »  the  blue  mists 
of  die  sea,  my  heart  went  with  it,  and  I  turned 
away  fancy-sick  widi  die  blessings  of  home  and 


Mj  heart  ro  fen?  Mill; 


Tfcy  «•<  the  «•»  aUw  wfc  a . 


At  times  I  would  sit  at  midmsht  n  the  sot- 
itnde  of  my  chamber,  and  eyre  way  to  die  recol- 
lection of  ifrfljff^  friends.  How  deusboul  it.  B 
thus  to  strengthen  wkhin  as  die  golden  threads 
that  oahe  our  sympathies  with  die  past,  —  to  fiD 
op,  as  k  were,  die  blanks  of  existence  widi 
of  dmse  we  lore  !  How  sweet  are 
as  of  home  in  a  foreign  bod  !  How 
ss  fife's  stormy  sea  blooms  dot  Etrie 

r        gf  „,-„_        ir»,_       »  TT  -  -  i^ 

at  attecnon,  luce  tnose  rtespenan  EKS 
•hau  fJn  ml  ^•••"*IT  ragns,  and  the  ofire  bios- 
soms  aO  the  year  roond,  and  honey  dbtik  from 
the  houow  oak !  Truhr,  the  lore  of 


372         THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION. 

interwoven  with  all  that  is  pure,  and  deep,  and 
lasting  in  earthly  affection.  Let  us  wander  where 
we  may,  Ihe  heart  looks  back  with  secret  long- 
ing to  the  paternal  roof.  There  the  scattered 
rays  of  affection  concentrate.  Time  may  en- 
feeble them,  distance  overshadow  them,  and 
the  storms  of  life  obstruct  them  for  a  season  ; 
but  they  will  at  length  break  through  the  cloud 
and  storm,  and  glow,  and  burn,  and  brighten 
around  the  peaceful  threshold  of  home  ! 

And  now,  farewell !  The  storm  is  over,  and 
through  the  parting  clouds  the  radiant  sunshine 
breaks  upon  my  path.  God's  blessing  upon  you 
for  your  hospitality.  I  fear  I  have  but  poorly 
repaid  it  by  these  tales  of  my  pilgrimage  ;  and  I 
bear  your  kindness  meekly,  for  I  come  not  like 
Theudas  of  old,  "boasting  myself  to  be  some- 
body." 

Farewell  !  My  prayer  is,  that  I  be  not  among 
you  as  the  stranger  at  the  court  of  Busiris  ;  that 
your  God-speed  be  not  a  thrust  that  kills. 

The  Pilgrim's  benison  upon  this  honorable 
company.  Pax  vobiscum  ! 


COLOPHON. 


Heart,  take  thine  ease,  — 
Men  hard  to  please 

Thou  baply  might*  offend  ; 
Though  some  speak  ill 
Of  thee,  some  will 

Say  better ;  —  there  '»  an  end. 

HXTI.IS. 


Mr  pilgrimage  is  ended.  I  have  come  home 
to  rest;  and,  recording  the  time  past,  I  have 
fulfilled  these  things,  and  written  them  in  this 
book,  as  it  would  come  into  my  mind,  —  for  the 
most  part,  when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  over, 
and  the  world  around  me  was  hushed  in  sleep. 
The  pen  wherewith  I  write  most  easily  is  a 
feather  stolen  from  the  sable  wing  of  night. 
Even  now,  as  I  record  these  parting  words, 
it  is  long  past  midnight.  The  morning  watches 
have  begun.  And  as  I  write,  the  melancholy 
thought  intrudes  upon  me,  —  To  what  end  is 
all  this  toil  ?  Of  what  avail  these  midnight  vig- 


374  COLOPHON. 

ils  ?  Dost  thou  covet  fame  ?  Vain  dreamer  ! 
A  few  brief  days,  —  and  what  will  the  busy 
world  know  of  thee  ?  Alas !  this  little  book 
is  but  a  bubble  on  the  stream  ;  and  although  it 
may  catch  the  sunshine  for  a  moment,  yet  it  will 
soon  float  down  the  swift-rushing  current,  and  be 
seen  no  more  ! 


THE    E N D 


VALUABLE    WORKS 

PUBLISHED    BT 

WILLIAM   D.  TICKNOR  AND  COMPANY, 

COR5EK  OF  WASHINGTON  AXD  SCHOOL  STREETS, 

BOSTON. 


COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  FRENCH  GRAMMAR.  New  Stereotype 
Edition,  in  one  Volume.  12mo. 

COUNT  DE  LAPORTE'S  SPEAKING  EXERCISES.  For  the  Illustra- 
tion of  the  Rules  and  the  Idiom  of  the  French  Laneuase,  New  Stereo- 
type Edition,  in  one  Volume.  12mo. 

COUNT  PE  LAPORTE'S  SELF-TEACHING  READER.  For  the  Study 
of  the  Pronunciation  of  the  French  Language.  New  Stereotype  Edi- 
tion, in  one  Volume.  12mo. 

These  works  are  used  aa  Text-books  in  Harrard  College,  and  are  exten- 
sively introduced  into  Schools  and  Academies  of  Boston  and  vicinity. 
They  are  highly  recommended  by  Professor  Longfellow,  and  Mr.  George 
B.  Emerson,  and  other  distinguished  teachers,  and  as  the  objection  made 
to  the  first  edition  of  this  series  baring  been  obviated  in  the  new  edition, 
viz.  the  high  price  at  which  it  was  sold  (necessarily  so,  in  consequence 
of  the  size  of  the  volume),  the  present  edition  having  been  so  reduced  in 
size  and  price  as  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  community,  a  very  extensive 
sale  is  anticipated  ;  and  the  publishers  feel  assured  that  these 'books  need 
only  to  be  known  to  have  their  anticipations  more  than  realized. 

ORTHOPHONY  OR  VOCAL  CULTURE  IN  ELOCUTION.  A  Man- 
ual of  Elementary  Exercises,  adapted  to  Dr.  RUSH'S  -  Philosophy  of 
the  HCMAN  VOICE."  and  designed  as  an  Introduction  to  '•  Russell's 
American  Elocutionist."  by  JAMES  E.  MURDOCH.  Instrvcter  in  Or- 
thophony  and  loco/  Gymnastics,  and  WILLIAM  RUSSELL,  author  of 
"Lessons  in  Enunciation,"  Ac.  With  an  Appendix,  containing  Direc- 
tions for  the  Cuttiration  ofPvre  Tone,  by  GEORGE  J.  WEBBT  Profes- 
sor, Boston  Academy  of  Music,  in  one  Volume.  12mo. 

"  This  word,  Orthophony,  has  its  origin  in  the  Greek  Language,  and  has 
been  used  by  two  eminent  public  instructers  of  Elocution  "in  Boston,  on 
the  title-page  of  a  new  work;  it  simply  means  vocal  culture.  Perhaps 
there  are  not  two  more  eminently  distinguished  teachers  of  Elocution 
now  living,  than  James  E.  Murdoch  and  William  Russell.  Their  reputa- 


a          BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY    WILLIAM    D.    TICKNOR    &    CO. 

tion  is  based  upon  a  solid  foundation,  and  therefore  their  labors  claim  the 
attention  of  thinking  men.  Possibly  the  question  may  arise,  what  has  a 
medical  journal  to  do  with  elocutionary  exercises,  or  the  philosophy  of 
the  voice.  Whatever  holds  out  a  prospect  of  advancing  in  any  manner 
the  physical  well-being  of  the  race  claims  our  regard,  since  it  is  a  leading 
object  of  the  profession  to  improve  by  the  labors  and  discoveries  of  others, 
and  to  perfect  as  far  as  possible  all  the  organs  of  the  body,  as  well  as  to 
heal  the  sick.  If  the  authors  of  this  work  have  brought  to  light  new 
principles  in  regard  to  Elocution,  or  made  clearer  to  the  understanding 
those  heretofore  taught,  it  is  a  privilege  to  receive  the  benefits  accruing 
from  their  labors  in  this  difficult  department  of  a  polished  education.  How 
little  the  generality  of  people  know  of  the  structure  of  any  of  their  own 
organs  !  The  existence  of  a  tongue  is  palpable,  but  how  it  is  moved  never 
occupies  a  thought.  Is  there  one  in  a  thousand,  that  has  any  conception, 
of  the  mechanism  by  which  voice  is  produced  ?  Neither  do  they  often 
care  about  the  matter  even  when  explained  to  them  in  detail.  A  complete 
anatomical  description  of  the  region  of  the  throat  is  not  therefore  of  much 
importance  in  connection  with  elocutionary  exercises.  And  hence  no  te- 
dious pages  about  tissues  or  muscular  fibres  are  introduced  into  this  work, 
the  authors  being  solicitous  to  teach  the  true  method  of  using  the  vocal 
apparatus,  so  as  to  develope  all  its  power  with  the  greatest  advantage,  and 
without  detriment  to  the  individual.  To  accomplish  an  end  so  desirable, 
the  treatise  before  us  opens  with  a  brief  consideration  of  the  parts  belong- 
ing strictly  to  the  production  of  voice,  followed  by  a  critical  analysis  of 
the  tonic  and  sub-tonic  elements.  Next,  the  vocal,  diphthongal,  and  conso- 
nantal elements  aYe  brought  under  severe  examination.  After  these  sub- 
jects are  systematically  disposed  of,  the  labials,  dentals,  and  palatic  sounds 
are  carefully  dissected. 

"All  that  part  of  the  volume  devoted  to  the  quality  of  the  voice,  with 
the  illustrative  examples  embraced  in  the  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh 
chapters,  will  be  read  with  the  hishest  interest  by  persons  of  understand; 
ins.  Considering  the  fact  that  this  is  a  nation  of  talkers,  there  is  a  great 
multitude  of  poor  speakers.  The  design  of  the  exercises  presented  in"  this 
manual  is  to  furnish  the  groundwork  of  a  practical  elocution,  — founded 
on  Dr.  Rush's  celebrated  Treatise  on' the  Philosophy  of  the  Human  Voice. 
If  physicians,  as  many  of  them  may  themselves  conclude,  have  little  or 
no  interest  in  this  matter,  their  children  at  least  should  have  all  the  ben- 
efits arising  from  a  perfect  understanding  of  it ;  and  their  influence  would 
indeed  be  a  powerful  one  in  overcomins  those  prejudices  which  some- 
times hedge  up  the  way  to  the  understanding."  —  Boston  Afed.  Jour. 

IN   PRESS. 

ALDERBROOK.  A  Collection  of  Fanny  Forester's  Village  Sketches,  Po- 
ems, <kc.  By  Miss  Emily  Chubbuck.  Will  be  published  in  a  handsome 
volume,  with  a  fine  Portrait  of  the  Author. 


fcf* 


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